


Come, Come What May

by SandSunSiliceousOoze



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Repo! The Genetic Opera Fusion, Blood and Gore, Fantasy Races, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Multi, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sick Character, Surgery, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23108278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandSunSiliceousOoze/pseuds/SandSunSiliceousOoze
Summary: In the year 2057, the world has nearly ended. Millions of people are dying of organ failure. But there is hope- organ transplants are cheaper and easier than ever.You can finance your bones and your kidneys.Of course, with every investment, there is a risk. Especially when you sign a contract in blood.Best you be punctual with making your payments, lest it be you on the concrete below.------------------------This is a story about the characters of Critical Role in the Repo! The Genetic Opera universe.
Relationships: Astrid/Eodwulf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44





	1. Prologue (At Your Weakest Hour)

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody asked for this and nobody wanted this, but damn if I didn't write it anyway. A million thanks to the fine folks who encouraged this ridiculous AU and helped to beta read it. You are the real heroes. 
> 
> This fic contains Repo!-typical violence (which is to say, a lot of questionably feasible organ removal, murder, excessive gore, and the like). I will put more specific relevant content warnings at the start of each chapter, and tags will be updated as the story progresses.
> 
> Content warning for prologue: murder, gore, needles/injections, alcoholism mention, smoking mention

A soft mist hangs over the city, blurring the lights and turning everything hazy. It had been raining earlier in the day, but the fat droplets of water gave way to the incessant spattering of mist hours before sunset. And it's now well into the middle of the night.

The street is quiet, save for the _drip-drip-drip_ of water from fire escapes and dumpsters into the dark puddles that spread over the cracked asphalt of the street and alleys. The only light comes from the flickering street lamps and the harsh red glow of the neon "Open" sign that hangs in the otherwise dark window of Lucky Jack's Pawn Shop. It's not long before the sign goes dark and the door opens. A thin middle-aged man steps out, glancing up and down the street before locking the door behind himself. He struggles for a moment to pull the old metal shutters across the front of his store, cursing when his hand slips and immediately looking behind himself. The rusted metal screeches in protest, interrupting the quiet of the street, but the silence returns unnervingly quickly as he locks the shutters together.

The man looks over his shoulder, uneasy, and pulls the hood of his jacket up to protect his thinning hair from the misty rain. He walks quickly up the street, ignoring the cold water soaking into his worn shoes. Every few seconds he glances behind himself, and when he finds the street still empty, he walks a little faster. By the time he ducks into an alley, he's almost sprinting. Maybe if he hadn't turned to look down the empty street one final time, he might've seen the massive, shadowy figure standing just beyond the corner.

But he doesn't, and the last thing he registers before he goes unconscious is a sickening _crack_ and a burst of pain in his skull. Lucky Jack crumples to the ground, and he does not get up.

The figure drops the chunk of asphalt onto the ground and taps the side of its mask. Bright light illuminates sapphire-blue eyes, and from a pocket on its leather apron, it pulls a crumpled sheet of paper. It crouches down, comparing the blurry photo on the sheet to the man with a bleeding head wound before reaching out a gloved hand and rifling through his pockets until it finds a wallet. It glances at the driver's license, nods to itself, and removes half of the bills from the wallet, tucking them into another pocket. 

Still crouched, it grabs a small, thin metal case from the ground behind it and opens it on Lucky Jack's torso. Gloved fingers tap thoughtfully across an array of syringes before removing one half-full of clear liquid. Leaving the case open, it rolls Lucky Jack's head to the side, uncaps the needle, and presses it slowly into his neck. It depresses the plunger with what could almost be mistaken for _care_ before recapping the needle, replacing the syringe in the box, and tucking the box into its coat. With a grunt, it hoists the limp form of Lucky Jack over its shoulders in a fireman's carry and stands. 

The walk to the warehouse is short and blessedly quiet. Through the mist, the black-clad figure looks almost like a shadow- easily passed off as a trick of the mind. But when it passes beneath one of the few working street lamps, there's no denying how real it is. Clean black leather shines with the damp that clings to it, and its steps are heavy and deliberate. It doesn't try to hide, doesn't stick to the shadows and back alleys. No one will interrupt it. No one who wants to live. And most people want to live.

Lucky Jack wanted to live, and he did- six months longer than he should have. Six months past liver failure. Fifty years ago, it would have been called a medical miracle. Today, it's just called business. He probably would've made it longer, too, but he knew the terms of the contract he signed. Pay on time, or forfeit your right to a liver. 

He did not pay on time.

The back door to the warehouse opens silently, despite the ragged and rusty look of it. The figure locks it, shifts the still-limp form of Lucky Jack, and heads for the basement. The stairs are cracked and filthy, covered in dirt and garbage and small spots of old blood. Thick-soled boots follow a familiar path where there are footprints in the dust, and a flip of a switch at the bottom of the staircase illuminates the space, the soft buzzing of fluorescent lights providing a background to the silence.

The figure lets the body of Lucky Jack roll off its broad shoulders onto a clean steel autopsy table, rolling out its neck before removing its mask.

There is no one in the room to see the close-cropped black hair, slightly pointed ears, and broad jawline of the man beneath the mask. His short hair is damp with sweat, and he takes a deep breath, enjoying the not-quite-fresh air. He hangs his mask on a coat hook and rolls out his shoulders before pushing a small metal tray over to the table. A quick needle prod to Jack's finger with no reaction reassures the man that the sedative is still working. And so he picks up the scalpel and gets to work.

The liver is easy enough to find, swollen as it is, and the barcode is a match. He drops it into the sterile bag and seals it, scribbling the barcode number and date onto the plastic before laying it in the freezer chest full of ice-cold OrgPres. The blue preservative fluid swirls and steams in the warm air of the basement, and the man takes a moment to watch it before closing the lid again.

He stares at the body on the table and sighs. Lucky Jack isn't entirely dead yet, and he should really see if any of his other organs are worth salvaging. Just because he was an alcoholic doesn't mean he can't have a decent set of lungs, or maybe a serviceable spinal column. The man is getting ready to open Jack's chest cavity when a muffled, tinny rendition of an old folk song interrupts the quiet humming of lights and dripping of blood.

With another sigh, he places the scalpel back onto the table and unbuckles his right glove from where it's attached at his shoulder. He lays it across Lucky Jack's stomach- not like he'll mind- and answers the incoming message on his HoloWatch.

"Are you nearly done?" The voice is feminine and throaty, and the man smiles to hear it. The small projection shows the head and shoulders of a short-haired woman with handsome features that rotates slowly.

"Hello to you too. _Ja_ , I'm nearly done. And no, I didn't forget, I'm still going to pick up bread on my way home."

"I didn't say you did."

"But you were thinking it."

She snorts, and for the first time that night, he feels something like happiness. "I wanted to say, get some honey, too, if we can afford it. His throat is hurting and I want to make him tea."

"Sure. I just came into some money, so we should be fine."

"Good." Her voice is softer, and she sounds tired. "Be safe, Wulf. Come home as soon as you can. He misses you."

"And you? Do you miss me?" He's teasing, knows full well she does.

There's a pause, and for a moment, he worries the call has cut out. But finally she says, "Yes."

The honesty catches him off-guard, and he murmurs, "I'll be home soon, Astrid. Keep him warm. I'll be home soon."

The call ends with a crackle, and Wulf frowns at Lucky Jack. _"Es tut mir Leid, Freund._ I’m running short on time, and I think you've reached the end of your usefulness."

He checks the pulse before filling a syringe with hot pink liquid and carefully injecting it into Lucky Jack's arm. After a minute, the body twitches violently once before going completely still. Wulf sighs, pulls Jack's wallet out again, and pockets the rest of the bills. Honey isn't cheap, especially not the good stuff, and Jack won’t be needing the money.

He pats the body down, knowing there's nothing else worth taking but checking just to be sure. All he finds is a ring of keys, a lighter, and a tin of mints. He doesn't let himself think about what the keys go to, what kind of cigarettes the man smoked, who might miss him when he doesn't come home. He simply reattaches his glove and begins to clean. 

The corpse goes into a body bag to be dealt with later, the table is scrubbed with bleach, and his apron and gloves are sprayed off with a hose. He has another job tomorrow, and he'll clean more thoroughly after that. But for now, it's late and he still has to go by the shitty 24-hour convenience store before he can go home and _sleep._

Wulf splashes his face with cold water, changes back into his street clothes, and counts the money from Jack's wallet. Eighty-seven dollars. He can buy bread and honey and- something _good_. Maybe he'll go to a proper grocery store tomorrow, buy some fresh vegetables, maybe even some meat. Maybe he'll cook something to last them throughout the week. Maybe Caleb will even be able to eat it.

His heart feels lighter as he makes his way home, and something like hope gnaws at his bones.

But this is not where the story begins.


	2. Infected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to my beta reader for being the best I could've asked for. 
> 
> A general content warning: The idea for this fic was developed long before the COVID-19 pandemic started, but it should be noted that, starting with this chapter, Caleb develops a respiratory illness, and this is a major plot point that will not be going away anytime soon. These are difficult times, and this is rough subject matter. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: descriptions of respiratory illness (specifically trouble breathing and lightheadedness), brief autopsy descriptions of lungs, references to parental death, financial stress

"So," Dr. Aldemo says, eyes glued to the clipboard in her hand, "which organ has failed?"

Caleb's hands sweat, and he clears his throat. "The, ah… the lungs. Pulmonary edema."

Dr. Aldemo raises an eyebrow and makes a note on her copy of the rubric. "And how do you know?"

"The alveoli are filled with fluid, and the bronchial tubes are thickened."

"And what caused this?"

Caleb stands as straight as he ever has, and ignores the tickle in the back of his throat. "I do not have enough information about the patient to say with certainty."

"Hm." Dr. Aldemo hums, and makes another note. "And how do you know that it is the lungs that failed, and not the heart?"

"The heart is brand-new."

She makes one more note before finally looking Caleb in the eye. "Speak with more confidence, Mister Widogast. The heart was a clever observation. You are correct."

He breathes a soft sigh of relief, and nods. "Thank you, Doctor Aldemo."

"Don't thank me, just keep up the good work."

She gives him the faintest shadow of a smile before moving on, and he relaxes. The body in front of him lies still, open and cold, its swollen lungs on prominent display. Caleb clears his throat again as he starts to clean up his work station. He'll get something to drink at lunch, listen to Eodwulf grouse about his biochemistry class, show Astrid the photo of Frumpkin fast asleep on her sweater, and he'll feel better. He will feel better.

* * *

Incredibly, he _does_ feel better, even before lunch. His throat still has that annoying tickle, and he feels much more tired than he should, but overall he feels _better_.

Astrid smiles at the picture of Frumpkin, and it's nice to see an expression on her face that isn't colored by stress, even for just a moment. In between bites of his sandwich, Wulf curses organic chemistry for all it's worth, and is so colorful in his descriptions that Astrid cries laughing and Caleb chokes on his drink. All in all, it is a welcome relief from the stress of the day, even if they have to part ways to head to their afternoon classes altogether too soon.

"I'll see you tonight," Astrid says, kissing each of her boys on the cheek. "Are you still cooking, Wulf?"

"Mhm. Gonna make shepherd's pie."

"That sounds good, _Bärchen_." Caleb smiles. " _Ich liebe dich_."

" _Ja, ja_." Eodwulf's cheeks color, and he looks away. "Love you too."

Despite being short of breath by the time he gets to the third floor, Caleb feels better, even if his chest feels tight when he tries to take too deep a breath. His Immunology lecture passes quickly, the subject matter just interesting enough to keep his attention on the professor and not on the way that every so often his head feels fuzzy. He's probably just tired, all things considered. Medical school is a big step up from university, and no one he knows has been getting much sleep. Astrid in particular stays up later than himself or Wulf most nights, furiously making flashcards and highlighting pages of notes, and it shows on her face.

So he's tired. He's been tired before and he'll certainly be tired again. He feels better, so he's fine.

* * *

The next day is about the same as the last one- he is tired and hazy, and climbing the stairs to his History of Organ Transplantation lecture leaves him a little more short of breath than usual. As he slides into his seat, he takes a moment to curse himself for choosing classes held in upper-story classrooms. But other than the brief irritation, he doesn't pay the breathlessness any mind, because he doesn't feel _bad_. He just feels _off_.

Astrid notices first because her schedule is aligned more closely to his than Wulf's is. She reminds him to drink water throughout the day on Wednesday and shoos him to bed at midnight on Thursday, telling him he's going to really get sick if he doesn't take care of himself. He protests for a minute or two, but they both know it's just for show. Caleb gives in to her gentle scolding willingly enough.

As he washes his face, he looks in the chipped mirror. The man staring back at him hasn't shaved for a day or two and, quite frankly, looks like garbage. Caleb washes the cleanser off his face and pats himself dry before pulling one of Wulf's ratty old t-shirts on and shuffling to bed. He falls asleep quickly, and doesn't stir when Wulf comes to bed an hour later, nor when Astrid joins them an hour after him.

* * *

Friday passes quickly, with Astrid and Wulf both mothering him, finding him in between lectures to see how he's doing and sending him reminders to eat and drink. He wants to tease them for it, but he knows their nagging is coming from the same place of concern that sits heavy in his stomach. His symptoms aren't _quite_ as severe, but- it's possible that his parents told themselves the same things, at first. That it's not a big deal. That it's nothing to worry about.

Caleb doesn't try to remember whether they had mentioned being short of breath or fuzzy-headed before they _really_ got sick. He doesn't want to know. Friday night, he falls asleep by 8 o'clock.

When he wakes up on Saturday, Caleb can't tell himself that he's fine anymore. His pajamas and bedsheets are drenched in sweat, to the extent that he wonders if Wulf didn't dump a bucket of water on him. Except he knows it has to be sweat because he feels fever-hot and dehydrated, and when he wipes his forehead dry, it's damp again moments later. The bed is empty save for him, and he doesn't hear any movement from the other rooms of the small apartment.

Blearily, he sits up and immediately regrets it. His vision swims and his head aches, and he has to take a moment to catch his breath. As he does, he sees a glass of water and a folded piece of paper on the nightstand. Gratefully he takes one small sip, then another, and unfolds the paper.

_Tried to wake you up this morning but you looked like shit so we decided to let you sleep. Wulf's working tonight but I'll be home. Drink some water. Be home soon._

_Love,_

_A._

He smiles despite himself, and holds the paper for another moment, imagining he can still feel Astrid's warmth on it. He drains the rest of the glass quickly, but it's several minutes before he feels well enough to stand up. Finally, though, his head clears and he resolves to wash the sheets before Astrid gets home. And his pajamas. And himself. His damp hair sticks to his forehead and the back of his neck, and the instant he leaves the bed, he starts to shiver. A shower first, then breakfast, then a quick trip to the laundry room. Easy enough.

* * *

He's barely started to wash his hair when he realizes this will not be _easy enough_. Standing up and shuffling the few steps to the bathroom had taken more energy than it ever has before, and standing in the small shower with its cracked tiles and the black mold that always comes back no matter how hard Wulf scrubs makes Caleb dizzy even before the water is hot enough to create steam.

He ends up leaning heavily against the wall as he scrubs the combination of dry and fresh sweat from his skin, trying desperately to make it through the process before he collapses. He does, in the end, make it through, though he has to lean against the counter as he dries himself off. Each breath feels like a tremendous amount of effort, and it _scares_ him. He considers calling Astrid, asking her to come home early, but that's not fair to her. It won't be long until she's home. He'll eat breakfast, and maybe that will give him the strength to wash his sheets.

Despite the gnawing hunger in his stomach, Caleb can’t find anything that actually sounds appetizing. There’s cereal and bread, but the thought of trying to choke down grains makes his stomach turn. He wants eggs, maybe, or oatmeal, but he doesn’t have the strength to actually _cook_ something. Finally he decides on cereal, and it takes him much longer than it should to get through the bowl. By the time he's put his dishes in the sink, he feels like he could go back to bed.

But no, not until he washes the sheets.

Stripping the bed requires more than one break, and Caleb feels like he's just run a marathon with how short of breath he is. Deeper breaths are starting to _hurt_ , too, a sharp pain like a dagger in his chest every time he dares to try and fill his lungs. But he pushes on- it's a simple task, he should be able to do this. And he does, though he has to take the rickety service elevator that always looks and sounds moments away from exploding into rusted shards of metal.

Blessedly, the laundry room is empty, and the best washer is open. It's in the corner and the outside is filthy, but Wulf had scrubbed the mildew from the drum months ago, and it is easily the cleanest washer in the room. He throws the sheets in with a small bead of soap and sets the water as hot as it will go. Then he slumps against the opposite wall and sinks down to the floor, where he watches the soapy water spin through the dusty glass.

The movement lulls Caleb… not _quite_ to sleep, but time passes strangely as the sheets spin. His eyelids feel heavy and he starts to nod off, but he never fully falls asleep. When the buzzer sounds, it feels like only moments have passed since the cycle began. Caleb pushes himself to his feet, swaying slightly, and transfers the laundry into the nearest dryer before sinking to the floor once more. 

This time, he _does_ sleep, and deeply. His dreams are muddled swirls of sound and color, dark and distant, but he is pulled back to consciousness by a tinny rendition of a familiar folk song and an insistent vibration against his wrist. He blinks, the flickering fluorescent lights harsh after the darkness of closed eyes.

 _"Hallo?"_ He taps his watch, bringing the slowly spinning projected bust of Astrid up. His voice is rough, and it's hard to tell whether the rasp is from sleep or the ache in his throat.

"Where _are_ you, _Schatz_? I've been trying to call you. Are you alright?"

" _Ja, Sassa_ , I'm fine. Just doing laundry." He looks up to the dryer and sees that the cycle has ended. "I'm headed back right now."

Astrid sighs, and the connection crackles. "I'll see you at home." She pauses, and for a moment, it seems like she might say something else. But the call cuts out without another word from her. 

After taking a moment to orient himself, Caleb climbs back to his feet and pulls the clean, warm sheets from the dryer. The warmth is comforting, and he buries his face in the soft fabric for just a moment before making his way back to the service elevator. It groans and screeches its way back to his floor, and he's barely out of breath by the time he unlocks the door to his- _their-_ apartment.

Astrid is sat at their kitchen table, and she stands as soon as she sees Caleb.

" _Scheiße_ , you look like _hell_. Why did you leave the bed? You shouldn't be up, give me those-" She takes the sheets from Caleb and glares at him. It's not a look he's accustomed to being on the receiving end of, and he feels… _bad_.

"I'm sorry. The sheets were… I had been sweating, and I…." Why _had_ he washed them? Was he going to go back to sleep? Did he want to save Astrid and Wulf the trouble? His mind is hazy again, and he blinks slowly at Astrid. Her glare has melted into something at once both softer and sharper. It takes a moment for him to realize it's concern.

"Sit," she says, and even if he hadn't been swaying and exhausted, he wouldn't have argued with her. So he sits in the chair she vacated and watches dully as she fixes a glass of water and sets it down in front of him.

"Drink this. The whole thing. I'm going to make the bed, and then you're going to get back in it. _Verstehst du_?"

Caleb nods, and takes a sip of the cool water. He must finish the glass, because soon he's in bed with Astrid rubbing his back. He falls asleep not long after that, and isn't awake to hear the panicked call she makes to Eodwulf.

* * *

"Wulf? He's- it's like Mama."

"Oh, _fuck_. He's gotten worse?"

"He was gone when I got home. Apparently he was washing the sheets, and when he came back he looked like a corpse. Could barely stand up, and he was so _pale_."

" _Scheiße_. Do you think… have you heard him coughing?"

"No, not yet."

"So we still have time." Even through the distortion of the call, Astrid can tell that his exhale is shaky. "I'll call around tomorrow, see if there are any openings."

"I'll start asking about picking up extra shifts. I don't remember exactly how much the medicine was, but I know Papa had to pawn his wedding ring."

"Don't tell him, _ja_? You know how he gets about money."

" _Obviously_ I'm not going to tell him. Just…" She trails off, the words she needs to say bitter at the back of her throat.

"I know, _Schatz_. I know which clinics to call. This won't break us. We'll be okay."

"Mm. Yeah. Okay."

"Love you, Sassa. I'll bring home something for dinner, does that sound good?"

" _Ja_ , sounds good. Love you too."

The call ends with a soft _beep_. Astrid runs her fingers through her short hair and grits her teeth. They will make it through this, all three of them. Whatever it takes.

She washes the dishes that have been sitting in the sink for two days because she needs to do something with her hands. Over and over, she tells herself _we caught it early, we don't even know if this is the same disease, he'll go to the doctor and we'll find the money and he will be okay. We will be okay._

Her hands are red and her fingers are pruney by the time she's finished, but her heart rate is back to normal and she no longer feels like static is running through her veins. She washes the residual dish soap from her hands before moving to their bedroom and settling next to the sleeping form of Caleb. His breathing is a bit raspy and he's shaking a little, so she pulls the worn quilt from the foot of the bed over him and strokes his hair until he stops trembling. 

* * *

When Eodwulf finally gets home, he finds his girlfriend and boyfriend asleep, Astrid's arm draped over Caleb's waist. He sighs, and looks at the bag of takeout in his hand before bringing it to the kitchen and putting it in the fridge. They can heat it up whenever they get up, and it'll be just as good.

Quietly, he washes up and changes into pajamas before climbing into bed behind Astrid. His arm stretches across both her and Caleb, and he holds them both tightly. His stomach growls, but he doesn't want to be away from them right now. He tries not to think about all the things he wants to say to Caleb, tries not to think about the phrase ’ _just in case_ ’, but by the time he falls asleep, the pillow beneath his head is wet with tears.


	3. Sequestered (Part of the Collection)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out again to my beta reader! Their help has been invaluable, and saved you from having to read a lot of details about sputum culture tests. 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: This chapter features a doctor's appointment, including mention of weight loss, (hypothetical) drug use, needles/blood being drawn, financial stress, and descriptions of respiratory illness.

"I don't need to go to the doctor," Caleb rasps, blue eyes watery as he glares at the pair in front of him. He grits his teeth as he tries to hold back a cough, but only ends up sputtering slightly.

"Seriously?" Wulf raises an eyebrow and his frown deepens. "Caleb, _Liebling_ , don't be a stubborn ass. You look and sound like shit."

"Rude," he mumbles, and isn't able to suppress the next cough.

"Mhm. And you said you _don't_ need to see a doctor?" Astrid crosses her arms and stands a little taller, drawing herself up to her full five-foot-two height. It wouldn't be intimidating if Caleb wasn't sitting down, and if he hadn't seen her like this before. But past experience has taught him that she's not to be fucked with- in general, but especially at times like this.

But he's sick and not feeling terribly agreeable himself, which is why he keeps talking.

"It's a cold. I will be fine in a day or two."

Astrid turns to Eodwulf. "You can carry him, _ja_?"

Wulf snorts, and flexes his arms. "Our little string bean? It would be like carrying a bunch of grapes."

"Sounds like someone is hungry," Caleb snarks, but despite his tone, he's shrinking slightly. In a softer voice, he says, "Please. Not… not yet. Give me another day. I just need to rest."

He doesn't need to say, _I can't afford to go to the doctor over a false alarm and I won't ask you to help_. The words have been hanging unspoken over all of them since the conversation started.

Astrid and Eodwulf share a look, and Astrid uncrosses her arms. "If you aren't looking better by Tuesday, you're _going_ to a clinic. And if Eodwulf has to carry you there kicking and screaming, he will. _And_ you're going to _rest_ between now and then."

Caleb coughs dryly into the crook of his arm and looks blearily at his boyfriend and girlfriend. "Fine. But I wouldn't be 'kicking and screaming,' I would be like a ragdoll. It is much harder to carry someone who is limp."

"Good to know you have this all planned out." Wulf smiles despite himself as he speaks. "Now, I'm going to make myself a cup of tea and I'm going to make you one, too, so request a flavor now or suffer whatever I pull out of the box."

"Lemon?" Caleb says quietly, and Wulf nods. "With honey?"

"We should still have some honey, _ja_. Just hold tight, I'll have everything ready here shortly. Sassa, anything for you?"

Astrid gently ruffles Caleb's hair. "Mm, Earl Grey?"

"I'll see what I can do. Caleb, if you want to go back to bed, I can bring your tea to you. I know how you like it."

He shakes his head slowly. "Everything hurts. I don't know that I want to move that much."

Astrid makes a small noise of frustration, but only says, "I'll help you to bed, come on."

Caleb shivers as she holds out a hand, and squeezes his eyes shut. "I… I don't want to be alone right now. Please."

"Oh, _Liebling_..." Astrid puts a hand on his back and starts to rub gently, up and down. The words _please let us take you to a clinic_ burn on her tongue, but she swallows them down. For all their threats, Caleb is an adult, and they can't force him to see a doctor. But they can take care of him as best they know how.

"I'm going to get you a blanket," she says softly, and Caleb nods. By the time she has him wrapped in the patchwork quilt from their bed, the kettle is starting to whistle and Caleb looks moments away from falling asleep. While Wulf fixes their tea, she weaves Caleb's hair into a simple braid, and he hums his appreciation.

They drink their tea in silence and later, when Caleb falls asleep sitting up, Wulf carries him back to bed.

* * *

The next day, Caleb is worse. He wakes up with a splitting headache and he's so congested he can barely catch his breath. Sitting up in bed makes his head spin, so he slumps back down and shivers under the covers.

"Caleb? Are you up?" Astrid calls from down the hall, walking towards the bedroom as she speaks. "How are you feeling to- oh, _Schatz_ , good _god_ , please, you _need_ to see someone-"

"Water," Caleb whispers, throat sore and eyes closed. "Please."

"Jesus," Astrid hisses under her breath. " _Ja_ , I'll get you some water, hold on-"

The sound of her footsteps fades as she moves back to the kitchen, and he can hear the groaning of the pipes in the walls as she turns on the tap. He lies still, just trying to breathe and will away the pounding in his head.

"Can you sit up?" Astrid is standing in the doorway, holding a plastic cup and looking concerned. Caleb nods, and struggles to a seated position, trying to ignore the way the room spins as he does. Astrid moves closer to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing him the cup. Gratefully he takes a small sip, wincing at the feeling of cool water on his sore, dry throat, but draining the cup within minutes. When he speaks again, his voice doesn't sound quite so much like sandpaper.

"Thank you, _Liebling_. What time is it?"

"Almost nine. You're staying home today; I already contacted your teachers."

He nods. "That is… Thank you."

Her face softens. "Please, I only have one class today, let me take you to a clinic. The one on Seventh is cheap, I went there when I had that ear infection. And they don't make you pay the day of your appointment, they bill you later. Please, Caleb. I'm… afraid."

Caleb has to look away, because his stomach is churning with guilt. He knows what she's afraid of- he's afraid of it, too. But rent is due soon, and his tutoring hours were cut back, and maybe if he just rests for a day or two, he'll recover. And if that's the case, he'll have wasted however much money just for some street clinic nurse practitioner to tell him to _rest and drink fluids_ , and he can't afford that.

"Tomorrow," he says, "if I'm not better by then. I'm scared too, _Liebling_ , but… I don't think this is anything serious." The lie tastes bitter in his mouth, and Astrid doesn't look convinced. But she takes the cup from him and pulls the blankets back over him. 

"Get some rest. I'll leave a bottle of water in here and I want to see it empty by the time I get back. Call me or Wulf if you need _anything_."

"Yes, sir," he says, teasingly, and Astrid almost smiles.

Caleb is asleep again by the time Astrid places a bottle of water on the nightstand, and she watches him for a moment before making sure his HoloWatch is nearby and walking out of the room. She doesn't cry on her walk to campus, but she almost wishes she could.

* * *

On Tuesday, Caleb wakes up coughing, and it's not the dry coughs from the day before. These coughs feel like they're ripped from the bottom of his lungs, and he finds himself spitting globs of yellow phlegm into the sink. He rinses his mouth only to start coughing again, and it seems like no matter how many times he clears his throat, he can still feel more mucus in his chest. At least his congestion has lessened.

It is with the distinct feeling of defeat that he makes his way blearily to the kitchen, and tells Eodwulf that he's ready to go to a clinic.

* * *

The fact of the matter is, from the moment he woke up drenched in sweat three days ago, Caleb had known he would need medical attention. He could _feel_ that something was wrong, that this wouldn't pass quickly. But still he let himself hope that he was wrong, that he would cough and sweat and shake for a few days, then go back to normal. 

Even now, sitting in the cold, impersonal waiting room of Seventh Street Urgent Care, wearing a paper mask and shivering beneath layers of clothing, Caleb hopes.

The door to the back rooms opens, and a young, surly-looking nurse with an undercut calls out, "Ermendrud?"

Wulf squeezes Caleb's hand as he pushes himself to his feet. Caleb squeezes back before he shuffles over to the nurse. She looks surprised for a moment before shrugging and stepping to the side to let him past.

"Okay, so we're gonna do all the boring stuff we have to do with literally every patient so get on the scale and don't move."

Caleb obliges, and frowns when he sees that he's lost almost six pounds since the last time he was weighed. The nurse looks at the number and copies it onto a form before jerking her head in a 'this way' gesture. Slowly and with labored breaths, Caleb follows her as she leads him to a counter. She grabs a plastic cup and a marker from the counter and makes a line on the cup. 

"Gotta do a piss test, sorry. GeneCo policy to make sure you're not on Z. You haven't had any recent surgeries, right?"

He shakes his head no, and makes his way towards the bathroom she points him to, cup in hand. Once he's done and is washing his hands, the familiar aimless anxiety of a drug test snakes through him. He's never even _seen_ Zydrate in real life, much less _used_ it, but there's always a fear in the back of his mind that somehow, he'll test positive for _something_ and get in all sorts of trouble. 

"All good? Cool, follow me." The nurse turns and walks towards an open examination room, not bothering to make sure Caleb is following her. He _does_ , of course, but he's never interacted with a nurse quite like this.

By the time he reaches the room, she's already setting out everything she needs, and she looks impatient as he closes the door behind himself.

"Sit on that table thing and I'm gonna get your vitals and all that shit."

If he wasn't so out of breath, he'd laugh at the fact that a nurse just said 'all that shit' without a hint of remorse or embarrassment. Instead, he takes slow, measured breaths through the thin paper of the mask as she gets everything together.

"Are you contagious, or did they just give you the mask 'cause you're coughing?"

"I don't know if I'm contagious. I don't know what I have."

"Cool, then keep it on for me. Give me your hand." She places the oxygen saturation monitor on his finger, then grabs the blood pressure cuff. "Gonna do blood pressure first so don't cross your legs." As she inflates the cuff and presses the stethoscope to his arm, Caleb does his best to just keep breathing. The nurse huffs curiously, then presses her fingers to his wrist. She removes the monitor from his finger and steps back, writing his vitals on her sheet of paper before speaking.

"So. Your body is all kinds of fucked up. How long have you been like this?"

Caleb blinks slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a second before re-opening them. The scene in front of him remains the same. He is still in a small, off-white room with a sink and a counter and some cabinets and the table he's sitting on and-

“Dude, can you hear me? Are you gonna answer me?”

For the first time since he was called back, he notices that the woman’s name tag reads ‘Beauregard’.

“Yes, I can hear you. You are very loud.”

“Okay, well, I wouldn’t have to be loud if you’d just _answer_ me. Did you hear what I said?”

“My body is fucked up, yes.” His throat is sore as he speaks, and he wants with every fibre of his being to lie down and go to sleep.

“Yeah. _And_ , I asked how long you've been like this?” Her scowl softens into something closer to curiosity than concern, but even sick as he is, he prefers that to pity.

"I've been feeling… _off_ all week, but, ah.. I think it was Saturday when things got worse."

"Sure." She makes a note on the clipboard she's been writing on. "And what's 'worse', like, give me some symptoms."

"Earlier this week, I was tired and short of breath. On Saturday I woke up drenched in sweat and barely able to stand up long enough to take a shower. I was struggling to catch my breath no matter what I was doing and I was fatigued."

"And between then and today?"

"I have felt like shit every day since."

"Uh-huh. Any coughing, sneezing, weird snot?"

“Some coughing, congestion, and yellow phlegm today.”

“Okay, well, your temperature is high and your blood oxygen is kind of low so overall, not ideal body conditions. I’ll tell Dairon and they’ll come check you out whenever they’re done with their other patients.”

“Thank you, Beauregard.”

She looks surprised for a second, then shrugs. “Sure. Literally just doing my job. Anyway, just hang out, she’ll be in soon.”

With that, Beauregard walks out, leaving Caleb alone in the exam room. Seconds later, she opens the door and sticks her head in. “Hey, I totally forgot but there’s gowns in that cabinet so strip down to your underwear and put one of those on.”

The door closes again, and after a pause to make sure Beauregard doesn’t have anything else to add, Caleb slides off the table and over to the cabinet. Vaguely, he thinks that if he _is_ contagious, this is a good way to spread whatever it is, but he gets a gown all the same and strips down. He hasn’t been wearing his binder while he’s already struggling to breathe, so he leaves his sports bra and boxer-briefs on. 

With the gown hanging loosely from his shoulders, he climbs back onto the table and closes his eyes. His chest hurts, and he is so very tired. He doesn't quite fall asleep, but he keeps his eyes shut and leans back against the wall until a knock on the door startles him upright.

"Ah- come in?" His throat is sore and dry, making his voice sound pathetic, even to his own ears.

The door opens, and a bald, dark-skinned elf walks into the exam room. They're wearing a white coat with a stethoscope draped around their neck, and the expression on their face is strangely reminiscent of Beauregard's expression earlier.

"Ermendrud?" Their voice is smooth and clipped, and Caleb immediately gets the sense that they are not interested in any type of small talk.

"Yes, Caleb Ermendrud."

They raise an eyebrow, but nod. "Dairon. You seem to be fairly sick."

"Ah… yes?" The adrenaline from the surprise of the knock is fading, and Caleb is back to wishing he could just sleep. "I've been having difficulty breathing, fatigue, fever, chills… I believe the current diagnosis is that my body is 'all kinds of fucked up'."

Dairon nods as though this is something she hears all the time- and maybe it is, if Beauregard is her coworker. "From what I've seen of your chart, that is accurate. I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs and do a few simple tests, and perhaps we can get a slightly more specific diagnosis."

Caleb nods, and angles himself so that Dairon can press the cold head of the stethoscope to his back.

"Deep breaths," she says, and Caleb takes as deep a breath as he can. It _hurts_ , and immediately he starts to cough. Dairon removes the stethoscope and waits for him to finish before returning to her earlier position.

"Perhaps not _so_ deep a breath this time," they say, and Caleb tries again. His breathing is much shallower than he knows is ideal, but it's this or coughing, and this at least lets Dairon listen to _something_.

They listen for two breaths before moving the stethoscope, listen for two breaths, move the stethoscope, and repeat.

"Now breathe normally," they say, and place the now-warm instrument on his chest. When they step back, they immediately scribble a series of notes onto their clipboard. Caleb sits quietly and waits. It feels like an eternity before they speak to him, even though it can't be more than a minute at most.

"So. It seems to me that you may be developing a case of pneumonia. Unfortunately, I can't do anything for you until we know whether this is viral or bacterial, or if it's even actually pneumonia. I would like to get a chest X-ray and take some blood, at least. If your coughs are productive we can do a sputum culture as well, though we prefer to collect those samples in the morning."

Already, Caleb is adding up numbers in his head- the X-ray alone won't be cheap, but lab work drives the price even higher. He considers saying no and just leaving, but he knows from experience that the longer this goes untreated, the more it will cost to fix. He pushes down the rising anxiety in his throat. He can figure out a way to afford this.

"That all sounds good."

Dairon nods, and makes another note. "I will have Beauregard take a blood sample, and we will get an X-ray of your chest within the hour." With that, they're out the door, and Caleb leans back against the wall, still in his gown.

It's difficult to tell how much time passes before the door opens again, no knock preceding it. Caleb prides himself on being able to track the passage of time, but it's so quiet in this room and his head is feeling fuzzier and fuzzier the longer he's upright. Beauregard entering has him jolting upright, but she has the decency to look a little apologetic.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. I'm here to take your blood."

Caleb does laugh, finally, just a short burst of laughter before he starts to cough again. He sits up and holds out his left arm as Beauregard sets everything up. "Help yourself."

"Do you get weird about blood? Like, are you one of those people who passes out?"

"Not typically, no."

"Sweet. Now, hold still."

He flinches as the needle goes in, but keeps staring straight ahead and forces himself to breathe. It isn't long before she pulls the needle out and presses a small gauze pad to his arm. 

"Hold this here. You good?"

"I am good, yes."

"Cool." She labels the vials of blood, then tapes the gauze into place. "Ready to get lightly irradiated?"

Caleb freezes, a sudden realization hitting him. "Is this, ah… Will I need to be topless?"

"Yeah, is that gonna be an issue?"

He swallows. "No, I just… Need to take something off."

"Do you need me to step out?" 

"No, but if you could…"

"Yeah, sure." Beauregard turns away, facing the corner, as Caleb removes his bra.

"Ready," he says, placing the bra on the exam table. Beauregard turns around, and as her eyes come to rest on the garment, they widen.

"Oh, shit!" She blurts out, and immediately grimaces. "Sorry, I don't mean it like- it's not a _weird_ 'oh shit', I just mean- me too. But in the opposite way."

"Ah," is the first thing he can think to say, and he has to take a second to process everything she just said. "Well. Good to, uh, know?"

"Yeah." Beauregard looks _sheepish_ , and the expression is bizarre on her face. "Sorry. I just got kind of excited. Like when you see another lesbian out in public and you're like, 'oh fuck, me too', not that I'm calling you a lesbian, just… ugh, fuck it. Let's just go." Her shoulders are slumped as she leads him down the hall and through a door labeled 'X-RAY ROOM'.

The actual process takes longer than Caleb had hoped, mostly because he has trouble holding his breath and keeping still when he's shivering and has to cough. But eventually he makes it through, and soon enough he's being led back to the exam room.

"You can put your clothes back on. I'll get you a cup for the sputum stuff and then you'll be good to go."

Caleb re-dresses and sets the gown next to him on the table, still catching his breath from the walk. This time, Beauregard knocks before she enters, and she hands him a sealed cup and a piece of paper.

"Drop this off at the billing place, and here's your cup. You know what to do, right?"

" _Ja_. Yes."

"Cool. Bring it by tomorrow, and, uh… we'll call you when we have the results." She pauses awkwardly. "See you later?"

"Goodbye, Beauregard. Thank you."

She closes the door without responding, and Caleb takes a moment to gather himself before heading to the exit.

* * *

He doesn't speak much on the walk back to the apartment, mainly because he doesn't have the breath for it, but Wulf fills the silence by chatting about the home improvement show that had been playing in the lobby.

"-you should've _seen_ the moulding they chose, I never thought I'd have opinions on something this stupid but good _god_ , Caleb, it was _hideous_. And they painted the front door _green_. I know what you're thinking, 'oh, a nice forest green to match the shutters, that isn't so bad', but no. No, it was chartreuse. _Char-fucking-treuse_. I cannot comprehend…"

Caleb is grateful for the chatter. It helps distract him from the concern about his illness, and from the weight of the bill he'll be receiving soon. He doesn't know how much they'll charge him for the x-rays and the tests, but every price he imagines makes his stomach turn.

When they get back home, Caleb strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed. Wulf brings him a glass of water, and prods at him until he drinks it. By the time the glass is empty, he can barely keep his eyes open.

"I have to head to work, _Schatz_ , but Astrid's class ends soon and she'll come back here before she has to go to work. I'm going to leave you more water, so make sure you drink it."

"Yes, mother hen," he says, voice thick with exhaustion. "Have a good shift."

"I will. I'm training that weird guy again, so I'm sure I'll have a story for you tomorrow. _Ich liebe dich, Kätzchen_. Get some rest."

" _Liebe dich auch_ , Caleb slurs, and is asleep before Eodwulf leaves the room.

He refills Caleb's glass, as promised, and leaves it on the bedside table. He brushes Caleb's hair from his forehead and places a soft kiss to the sweat-damp skin.

"Please get better," he whispers. "We need you to stay with us."

After just a moment of watching the rise and fall of his boyfriend's chest, Eodwulf changes into his athletic clothes, grabs his gym bag, and sets out for tonight's private training session.


	4. Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my beta reader is the MVP of this endeavor. An absolute icon. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: brief talk of vomiting, medical procedure involving needles, financial stress, passive suicidal ideology, mention of drug use and addiction, and parental death.

The next month passes in a haze of doctor’s appointments and failed antibiotic courses. The things that have made their home in Caleb’s lungs are resistant to nearly everything Dairon can think to throw at them, and for every day Caleb can breathe just a little easier, he has three days of being all but unable to get out of bed. Eodwulf takes to making large batches of simple soups, and there are always at least two bottles of water on the nightstand. 

After the first week, he has to call his teachers to beg for extensions. After the second week, he has to ask Astrid and Wulf to pick up his homework. After the third week, he has to call his advisor to ask what he should do, and after the fourth week he has to request a medical withdrawal for the semester. He cries at that, finally allowing himself an afternoon of self-pity, and ends up so short of breath that he gags and barely avoids vomiting on the floor. As his stomach churns and he tries not to retch, he curls in on himself and digs his fingers into his sides as tears roll down his cheek to soak into the pillow. He cries himself to sleep like that, curled into the fetal position, and doesn’t wake up until Astrid gets home from work.

That’s another aspect of his misery- Astrid and Eodwulf have been working extra shifts because of him, trying to cover the monthly rent and- they’ve tried to be sneaky about it, but he knows exactly how much money he has, and when he finds an extra few dollars in his wallet, he knows where they came from. To his disgust, he’s stopped giving the money back. There is a stack of unpaid bills sitting beneath one of the water bottles, and he feels their presence like a weight in his chest. He’s already exhausted what little savings he had, and even if he could get to a bank, he knows they wouldn’t loan him anything. He has nothing to act as collateral, and probably never will. On the nights when he wakes up alone and short of breath, he wonders if it wouldn’t be so bad if he simply died.

On the days when he coughs and coughs and coughs until he can taste blood, he wonders if he _will_ die. 

But he can’t- he can’t do that Astrid and Wulf, can’t saddle them with his funeral costs on top of the mountain of debt that makes it that much harder to breathe. And beneath the stress and haze and pain, he isn’t ready to give up. He has _plans_. He wants to start to fix what is broken, to fix the system that failed his parents. That failed all of their parents. And he can’t do that if he’s a corpse. So he follows every instruction Dairon gives him, takes his medications exactly as prescribed, drinks water and eats what he can and rests and rests and rests. 

* * *

“You’re not gonna like this,” Beauregard says, and he hears the grimace in her voice.

“What now?” The latest course of antibiotics still isn’t helping, and it’s an especially bad day for breathing. Caleb keeps having coughing fits, and he’s afraid he’s cracked a rib with how badly his chest hurts. Dairon had been in several minutes prior, and had listened to his lungs before hurrying out of the room without a word. 

“Dairon thinks you have a pleural effusion and they wanna do a thoracentesis.”

Caleb laughs out loud, and immediately falls into another coughing fit. Beauregard just watches him, an apologetic look on her face.

When he can finally breathe enough to speak again, he says, “That sounds about right. Why _wouldn’t_ my lungs be full of fluid?”

“I’m sorry, man. She wants an X-ray before she does it, too.”

“Sure.” He strips out of his shirt and bra before grabbing a dressing gown. Beauregard politely looks away, but Caleb is at a point where he couldn’t care less. In the back of his mind, the stack of bills on his bedside table grows taller. He moves slowly down the hall, breathing as best he can.

* * *

Caleb laughs again when he sees the needle, and coughs so hard his vision starts to go black.

When he’s done, Dairon says, “It is important that you do not do _that_ while I do this. Can you keep yourself from coughing for ten minutes or so?”

The breath he draws is wheezing. “I’ll do my best. I’d rather not have a punctured lung.”

“That is something I’d like to avoid as well. Now…”

Beauregard brings in a chair, and helps him situate himself so that he’s sitting in the chair with his head and arms on the table. The gown is off, and the air is cold on his bare skin, but he’s been feverish enough today that it isn’t unpleasant. 

“I’m going to numb the area, so you will feel a prick and a sting.”

“Title of your sex tape,” Beauregard mutters under her breath, and Caleb barely manages to keep himself from laughing as the numbing agent is injected.

“Beauregard, if you make him laugh during this procedure, I will make _sure_ you are responsible for cleaning the specimen collection area every day until you die.”

“You’re no fun,” she says, but doesn’t add anything beyond that. As Dairon waits for the anesthetic to kick in, Caleb can hear his heart beating in his ears. His breaths are shallow, and he tries not to think about the size of the needle or the amount of fluid apparently in his chest.

“Alright. You’ll feel some pressure, and a slight pop when I enter the pleural cavity.” Dully through the anesthetic, he feels the needle enter his back, and he forces himself to stay still. He _feels_ when it reaches its destination, and Dairon hums in approval. “There we go. I’m going to aspirate the fluid now, so keep still.”

The next eight minutes seem to stretch out for an eternity, but Beauregard keeps reminding him to breathe, and when the needle is finally pulled out, Caleb feels almost calm. Until he sees the amount of fluid Dairon has drained.

"I removed roughly half a liter," they say. "I'll have the lab test it for infection, but you should feel a little better now, at least."

Caleb sits up slowly, part of his back still numb, but he's surprised to find that it's slightly easier to breathe. "Thank you."

"As always, we'll call you with results. Stay on the course of antibiotics you're on until you hear differently from me." They purse their lips slightly. "Take care, Mr. Widogast."

Beauregard stays in the room after Dairon leaves, and is still there once Caleb has finished re-dressing. He looks at her, curious, but only gets a shrug in response.

There's a lengthy, awkward pause before she says, "How are you doing?"

"Well, I just had an enormous needle in my lungs, so-"

"No, dude, I mean how are you _doing_? Being sick like this… it fucks you up. And you've seemed more and more bummed out every time I've seen you, and you weren't that cheery to begin with."

"I'm surviving, Beauregard. And that is about the best I can do at the moment." 

"Yeah, well… just keep doing that. And you can call me Beau. 'Beauregard' is so fuckin' stuffy." She pauses. "You live with people, right? I've seen a guy and a girl with you in the waiting room."

"My partners, yes." Neither of them had been able to come with him this time- Wulf has already missed too many classes, and Astrid is covering a shift for a coworker. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I think it would be shitty if you had to go through this alone."

"Beauregard. Do you _care_ about me?"

She prickles immediately. "No! I mean, I'm a healthcare provider or whatever so _yeah_ but not like- I don't _care_ -care about you-"

"Well. I am glad to have met you, Beauregard."

"Gross. And I told you, it's Beau."

"Beau, then… thank you."

"Sure. Whatever." She scratches the back of her head. "Just, like… if it gets to be too much, talk to somebody, yeah?"

" _Ja_. Will do."

"Cool. Anyway, uh… Later." 

He's not sure whether it's the quiet happiness of Beau giving a shit about him or the half-liter of fluid no longer in his chest, but on the walk home, he feels just a little lighter.

* * *

Astrid doesn't get back to the apartment until nearly two in the morning, and as she glances around the dark space, she sees a shape on the couch. It's Wulf, and he has his knees hugged tight to his chest as he cries quietly. Astrid kicks her shoes off at the door, and wraps her arms around his shoulders as she sits beside him. Without saying a word, he turns to press his face into her chest, and he clings to her as he cries. She runs her fingers through his short hair and hums an old lullaby, trying not to let herself start crying as well.

Eventually, Wulf stops sniffling, and his breathing evens out again. He gives Astrid a squeeze before pulling back from her and wiping the tears and snot from his face. 

"Rough day?" She asks softly, already knowing the answer.

"Same as every other. I just- I came home and he has two new medical bills and for a second, Astrid, I swear, it was like he didn't recognize me-"

"It's okay. It's okay." She hates herself for lying, but it's a lie she's been clinging to like a lifeline. "He will be okay. _We_ will be okay."

Wulf shakes his head. "What if he isn't? What if we aren't? You and I have been working every single day. You're exhausted. _I'm_ exhausted. Astrid, I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm behind in all my classes, and I haven't gotten more than four hours of sleep a night for… at least two weeks. And I know you're struggling just as much, and we still can't make ends meet." His voice has started to crack, and he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I just don't know what to do. What if he never gets better? What if he gets worse? What if he…?"

"He _won't_ ," she hisses. "He _will_ get better and he _will_ survive, and so will we. That's what we _do_ , Wulf. We survive."

"It's so hard to survive," he whispers, and Astrid feels her eyes burning with tears. 

"I know. But we have no other choice."

He nods, and clears his throat. "How, ah… how was work?"

Astrid groans. " _Gott_ , if I have one more rich _Arschloch_ telling me to smile more before tipping me five percent on a hundred-dollar tab, I'm going to start practicing dissection outside of the classroom. How was your training?"

"I waited on my newest client for almost an hour, but he never showed. I tried to call him, but…" He shrugs. "I know it was an hour I didn't get paid for, but it was nice to just… sit and not have to _do_ anything. Then I had Bryce, and they did well, and then I had Yasha."

"Oh, the giant woman? How was she?"

"Seemed a bit sore, and she had a black eye and a cut on her cheek. I asked her what happened, but she just said 'you should see the other guy'. You know, I'm never quite sure if she's joking?"

"Mm. Well, I'm glad you have a little intrigue in your day-to-day." She yawns, and shakes her head. "I'm going to bed, I think. Care to join me?"

Wulf nods, and takes the hand she's offering, letting himself be pulled to his feet. "Thank you. For talking."

Astrid stretches up on her tip-toes to press a kiss to Wulf's cheek. "I know it feels like we're up shit creek without a paddle, but… things will work out, _ja_? They have to."

The sentiment is much more hopeful than she feels, but she does her best to believe it.

* * *

Five days before everything goes to shit, Caleb wakes up to find Astrid curled up on his left side and Eodwulf on his right. Wulf is snoring softly, but Astrid is watching him with one eye cracked open. 

" _Hallo_ , Sleeping Beauty."

Caleb has to drink from the water bottle Astrid hands him before he can croak out, "What are you both doing here?"

"No work, no school. It's Remembrance Day."

"Ah. So you'll be here all day?" He tries to keep the hope out of his voice, but it seeps into his words like a stain.

"I'm not sure we'll be able to get Wulf out of this bed, so yes." She brushes a strand of hair out of his face, and tucks it behind his ear. "I think I'm going to go visit my parents, if you'd like to come along. Your _Mutter und Vater_ are buried pretty close to mine."

"I would like that," he says softly. "It's been a while."

Astrid wraps an arm around him, and pulls him close enough to press a kiss to his forehead. She stays like that for several moments, lips against his skin, before murmuring, "How are you feeling today?"

"So far? Dry." One of his hands comes to rest on her waist, feather-light like he's afraid to touch her. "I feel… not awful. Though I haven't tried to stand up yet."

"Mm. Drink some more water, _ja_? And keep Wulf company while I go make breakfast. How does oatmeal sound?"

" _Wunderbar_ , thank you, _Liebling_."

" _Gut_. I have a surprise, too. Just stay here and rest, I'll have it ready soon." She places a kiss on his cheek before climbing out of bed and heading to the kitchen. Caleb can hear her filling a pot with water and the sound of dry oats being added and, after several minutes, he hears the sizzling of bacon. Another minute and the smell of cooking meat has filled the apartment, and Wulf stirs beside him.

"Is that bacon?" He half-asks, half-yawns, and presses closer to Caleb. "Fuck yes."

Caleb laughs, and turns to face him as Eodwulf tucks his face to Caleb's chest and wraps his arms around him.

"I've missed you," Wulf mumbles, and a pang of sadness runs through Caleb. "And I've missed bacon. God bless Sassa."

Caleb runs his fingers through Wulf's hair, earning a sleepy hum of satisfaction. He can't remember the last time he got a quiet moment with either of them, much less both of them together, and the absence of Astrid in bed with them feels like a gaping wound in his chest.

It isn't long before she comes in, though, holding a half-eaten piece of bacon and smiling. _God_ , when was the last time he saw her smile?

"Breakfast is ready. Do you want to eat in bed, Caleb?"

" _Nein_ , I want to- to sit at the table with you." _I want to feel human again, just for a bit. Even if it hurts._

"Well, come on, then." She pops the rest of the bacon into her mouth, and helps pull Caleb to his feet. Wulf follows, and the breakfast they have is wonderful. Caleb eats more than he has in weeks, even though he knows he'll regret it. They chat, and laugh, and though he still coughs and his chest still aches, he almost feels like himself again.

The weather, for once, is tolerable- the ever-present clouds have parted just enough to let a few rays of sunshine in, and the cold isn't quite as biting as they make their way to the graveyard. Caleb has taken to wearing a mask when he goes out- he's not sure anything could make him sicker at this point, but he'd rather not find out. It makes breathing the cold air easier, too.

They don't bring flowers- that would be an irresponsible purchase, even if it feels like a betrayal to show up empty-handed. Their parents are buried in the same graveyard- they had all died within two months of each other, with Wulf's mothers going first and Caleb's father being the last. Astrid had been eighteen, Wulf and Caleb seventeen. Had the city not been preoccupied with holding itself together, they might've been separated, but the one benefit of societal collapse was that nobody had the time or resources to deal with orphans on the cusp of adulthood. So they sold what they could and packed up what they couldn't, and moved into the cheapest apartment available.

Scholarships, student loans and part-time jobs had gotten them through undergrad, and were barely getting them through their first year of medical school. Caleb had been assured that he wouldn't lose his scholarships over his medical withdrawal, but even with that money guaranteed, he's not certain he can afford to go back.

But that's a problem for another day. A day when he isn't out with the people he loves for the first time in much too long. 

They stay together the whole time, visiting graves one by one. Not enough time has passed that any of them are ready for this to be a solitary affair. There are other people visiting graves, and it's a strange sight- the graveyards of the city are typically locked as a deterrent to grave robbing and are only opened to the public on special occasions. Remembrance Day is one such occasion, and Caleb is thankful that he feels well enough to be out. 

He brushes some of the moss and dirt from his parents' headstones, and kneels for a moment, whispering a greeting and his love. Wulf and Astrid have to help him stand back up, and he doesn't let go of their hands once he's back on his feet.

They actually get dinner out- one of Wulf's clients owns a small bistro, and she told Wulf to come by anytime for a free meal. The idea of actually doing so had made his pride hurt when she had first made the offer months ago, but- circumstances have changed. She's glad to see him, and happily takes their orders, chatting with Wulf and asking about his current workout routine.

Caleb begs to eat there- it's been so long since he's been out of the apartment, and even longer since he's actually eaten _in_ a restaurant. Astrid and Wulf fuss and ask him how he's feeling, if he thinks he can handle it, if he's _sure_ , but Caleb holds his ground. They end up at a table by the window, able to look out on the street and at everyone passing by. 

A digital billboard atop a building flickers from screen to screen, showing the upcoming performances at the GeneCo Opera Building. The image changes from a red-eyed and purple-skinned tiefling to a blonde half-elven man to a red-skinned tiefling woman with dark red hair and spiraling horns, and finally to the smiling visage of Trent Ikithon, founder and head of GeneCo. His long white hair is tied back in a neat ponytail and his thin, boney fingers are laced together as he leers down at the city he controls. 

Something about the image makes Caleb's stomach turn, so he tears his eyes from the billboard and focuses on the food in front of him. It's simple but _good_ , warm and filling and distinctly homemade. He and Astrid and Eodwulf sit in the bistro for hours, eating and talking and laughing together. Caleb's chest feels warm and full, and for once, it isn't from the infection.

When they finally leave, the sun has set, but the apartment is only two blocks away and a majority of the street lamps still work. A man stumbles out of a dark alleyway, swaying and leaning heavily on the brick wall. As they walk past, he holds out a trembling hand.

"Spare change? Spare change for a man whose payment is past due?"

"Sorry," Astrid mumbles, and they keep moving.

From behind them, the man starts to shout. "Oh, come on! Fuck you! Not even a dollar, huh? I hope you can sleep easy knowing my guts are gonna be painted all over some back alley when the Repo Men come-"

His voice is blessedly cut off as they close the door to the apartment building, but Caleb's hands are shaking slightly as he calls the service elevator.

"Fucking Z addicts," Wulf mumbles. "You'll never catch me using that shit, not even if I _need_ surgery."

"You know it's only bad if you overdo it."

"Sure, but _look_ at the rate of addiction. It's like the stuff was _made_ to be abused."

"Mm." Astrid brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs. The elevator ride is silent, save for the creaking and moaning of the metal.

The shower isn't big enough for even two of them to share, so they take turns showering one at a time. Wulf goes first, and is asleep face-down on the bed with his hair still damp by the time Caleb gets out of the shower and Astrid gets in. He's beautiful in the yellow light of the room, with the shadows throwing his muscles into sharp relief. He's also completely naked, and Caleb doesn't bother pretending he's not enjoying the view. He finishes toweling off, drying his hair as best he can before climbing naked into bed with Wulf.

Immediately, Wulf moves closer to him, and the feeling of his bare skin against Caleb's has his heart rate slowing and his brain quieting. He presses up against Wulf, and is nearly asleep himself by the time he hears the shower turn off. It takes a minute to wake up enough to look over his shoulder and when he does, he sees Astrid standing there, wet hair clinging to her face and a smile softening her expression as she watches them. 

"Come to bed," he mumbles, and she does. Having both her skin and Wulf's against his has him falling asleep in no time, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in years.

* * *

Caleb sits at the kitchen table, rubbing his forearms and staring resolutely at the wooden surface. This had been his mother's table. He can see the shadow of the ink stain from where he chewed on a pen until it broke, spraying him and the table with ink. They had never quite managed to clean all of it up.

"What do you mean, you need new lungs?" Astrid speaks in a hushed whisper, but her voice seems to echo in the dead silence of the room.

"Mine are… Dairon says I have abscesses. The infection is spreading, getting worse." He coughs, and his whole body shakes with the force of it. "They said it is… a miracle I haven't developed sepsis. That it's only a matter of time, at this point." He clears his throat and tilts his head up towards the ceiling, trying to focus on the water stains on the cracked plaster instead of the tears burning his eyes and throat.

Astrid feels shock, then anger. It isn't fair. They've given up so much. Caleb has suffered _so much_. It isn't _fair_ , and she won't accept it. He _will not_ die. He will _live_ if she has to rip the lungs from someone else's chest and perform the surgery herself. 

As her eyes meet Wulf's, she sees the same hard resolve. His cheeks are wet with tears- _hers are too, when did she start crying?-_ but his eyes burn with the same anger and determination roiling in her belly.

"I, ah… I don't have any savings left over anymore, but when I'm gone you can pawn off anything of mine that might be worth something, to help with the costs-"

"Shut up," Wulf says, voice choked. "You're not going anywhere."

"Eodwulf. I cannot afford X-rays and lab work. Right now, I couldn't even afford a new pair of pants. I don't know how you think I can afford new lungs."

"We'll find a way." At the dubious look on Caleb's face, Wulf adds, "We aren't going to fucking- _abandon_ you-"

"That is _not_ what I'm saying, please don't-" Caleb's voice catches. "Please don't abandon me. I don't want to be alone when it happens. It is just… It's too late. You have already done so much for me, both of you, working yourselves to death-"

"Stop it," Astrid hisses, "stop _talking_ like this!"

"I'm trying to be _practical-_ "

"No, you're trying to be a fucking _martyr_ and I won't let you-"

"For what cause? What am I championing with my death? A broken system? A broken body?"

"You're being unreasonable!" There are tears in her eyes, burning and blinding her, and she can hear herself getting louder and louder.

"I am trying to keep from further drowning you in debt! It's my fault you're both out all day and night, working and working so that I can waste more of your money on a doomed endeavor!" Caleb is shouting too, as much as he can with such a limited lung capacity, and his voice gets raspier with every word.

"Caleb, _we_ are the reason we're working. You never forced us to do anything. You begged us _not_ to. I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work. Because we are _not_ going to stop caring about you, we are _not_ going to give up on you, and we are _not_ going to let you die, for fuck's sake." Wulf is breathing hard, but he's doing his best not to yell. 

"Why not?" His voice is tiny and broken, and the words are followed by a sob as Caleb begins to cry.

Immediately, both their arms are around him, holding him close, keeping him safe between them. Caleb cries, great heaving sobs that make him cough and choke, but still they hold him. 

At some point, they must move to the bed, because that's where Caleb wakes up, face itchy with dried snot and tears and throat dry and aching, still surrounded by the partners whose love he doesn't deserve. His head aches and he can feel sweat starting to bead on his forehead as his fever starts to flare. He doesn't _mean_ to fall back asleep, but when he wakes up for the second time, the bed is empty and his face has been wiped clean. There's a fresh bottle of water for him with a note taped to its side. He reads it, and has to drink quickly before the tears start again in earnest.

_ Because we love you, that's why. _

_ Dumbass. _

_ Love, _

_ A&E _


	5. My Burdens I Can't Erase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, my wonderful beta came through and proofread this and I am eternally grateful to them.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: knife injury, severe weight loss, taking an innocent person hostage and threatening bodily harm, choking, Trent Ikithon.

The ticking of the clock is unbearably loud in the silent room. Astrid stares at her hands, clasped in her lap, and notices that she's been biting her nails. When did she start doing that? 

She looks to Wulf and finds him staring vacantly at the empty desk. There had been a secretary sitting there when they had arrived, because they had told her they were there. Had checked in for their appointment. And she had nodded and told them to _have a seat, Mr. Ikithon will see you shortly_. 

But it's been three hours and the secretary is gone. They should be in _class_ , all three of them. Wulf and Astrid shouldn't be waiting to beg a CEO for a loan. Caleb shouldn't be dying alone in their apartment. None of this should be happening. It isn't _fair_.

Still, the clock ticks on- one more hour, then two. The secretary comes back, but she tells them the same thing she said five hours ago. Wulf has started to pace. Astrid catches herself biting her nails, and only realizes she’s bitten them to the quick when she sees a bead of blood start to well up.

She had been bleeding when she'd gotten this ridiculous idea, hadn't she? Some stupid customer had given his toddler a steak knife, and when she had reached for the brat's plate, he had brought it down on the back of her hand. Astrid hadn't cursed, hadn't made a sound louder than a hiss- she knows that even if she were to get a third-degree burn in front of customers, the only thing they would care about would be whether she said a word they found distasteful as her skin sizzled.

She had snatched the knife away, and apologized when the brat started screaming even as blood started to run down her fingers. She had walked back to the kitchen, numb to everything but the throbbing in her hand. There was a first aid kit behind the swinging doors to the dining room, and after washing the worst of the blood off and pressing a paper towel to the cut, she had gotten to work dressing the wound. Thankfully, it hadn't been a deep cut, but she had still taken a moment to lean against the wall once her hand was wrapped. The adrenaline was starting to leave her system, and she could feel herself shaking.

The worst part, she thought, was that her tip was going to be shit- if they tipped her at all. If she was really unlucky, they would complain about her 'poor service' to management, and conveniently leave out the part where they let a three-year-old have a knife. Anger bubbled in her stomach, and she knew if she didn't take a second to breathe, she might snap.

As she closed her eyes, she tried to focus on the conversation the chefs were having- she just needed to think about anything that wasn't customers for a minute.

"-yeah, my brother-in-law wants to try out that new elective surgery thing. Said something about always wanting a different face. Personally, I think it's ridiculous- who has that kind of money just lying around?"

"Doesn't your husband? They're related, ain't they?"

"Nah, this guy married rich. Still, you know he said he set up a meeting with Ikithon himself to talk about a payment plan? Fuckin' socialites. Not that I wanna meet the guy. Something about him just seems off, you know?"

"You're tellin' me. The guy's a creep. He acts all friendly with the press, but even then it's like he can't totally turn it off. I ain't gunnin' for a meeting with him, that's for damn sure."

Just like that, everything had seemed so _clear_. No bank would meet with them, but maybe if they went straight to the source…

She had finished her shift in a daze, too busy planning the call in her head to pay full attention to what was going on around her. When she got home, Eodwulf had rubbed her feet while she explained the plan to him, and he had agreed. It was worth a try.

And now, here they sit. Waiting and waiting as the hope they've clung to for days starts to slowly slip out of their grasp. Astrid starts to gnaw on her thumbnail, and Wulf stalks back and forth across the room like a caged animal. And they wait.

* * *

Caleb smiles as his mother pours boiling water into the chipped mug in front of him and stirs in a packet of instant hot chocolate. She's humming a familiar tune, and he closes his eyes to listen to it. But the longer she hums, the more distorted the sound becomes, until it's no longer her voice, but a tinny, mechanical rendition of the song. He opens his eyes only to find himself in bed in his shitty apartment, alone. 

The music doesn't stop, though, and he looks around for a moment before realizing it's his HoloWatch. Vision still blurry with sleep, he blinks and grabs it from the nightstand, pressing the button on the side to answer the call. He's surprised to see that the projected bust is that of Beau, and even more surprised to hear her voice.

"Hey, is this Caleb? This is Beauregard. Lionett. From the clinic?"

"Your last name is Lionett?"

"What? Yeah, how did you not know that? Anyway, this _is_ Caleb, right?"

He turns his head away from the watch to cough loudly, and his throat aches when he's finished. " _Ja_ , this is Caleb. I thought I had the results from my latest lab work?"

"Yeah, this isn't about that. I mean, it sort of is, but like… We can't talk about it like this. Can you meet me somewhere?"

"How many times have you told me to stay in bed?"

There's a pause, then a "Oh yeah. Ugh. Look, this is kind of urgent so can I just come over? I promise I'm not gonna start stalking you, just… please."

He bites his lip, thinking, but he doesn't have to think for long. "Yes. But if you _do_ start stalking me after this, I will be very unhappy."

"Please," she snorts, "I have a _pretty_ good idea of what your day-to-day routine consists of, and I'm not desperate enough to watch that in the free time I don't have."

Caleb laughs a little at that. Talking to Beauregard makes him feel… human. She doesn't walk on eggshells around him, and while he appreciates the love and care behind all of Astrid and Wulf's mothering, sometimes he just wants to snark at somebody.

After he gives Beau his address and ends the call, he groans. She said it would take her about half an hour, and he's disgusting. Thirty minutes should be more than enough to at least rinse off the worst of the filth and put on a clean shirt and pants. He knows the whole apartment has the distinct smell of illness, and he can't do anything about that, but at the very least he can try and clean himself up.

He's staring at himself in the mirror when he hears the knock on the door. He looks awful, even after a shower- the clothes that used to fit him now hang off him like loose skin, and he has to physically hold up his jeans as he walks. He would try and find a belt, but he doesn't know where to look and none of his would fit him like this, anyways.

As he opens the door, the strangeness of seeing Beau in something other than scrubs hits him hard. She's in loose, baggy pants with elastic cuffs that cling to her calves and a sports bra with a loose vest overtop. With her arms and stomach on display, Caleb can see that she's _ripped_. Maybe she and Wulf go to the same gym.

"Come in," he says, and she grunts a _'thanks'_. "Ah, you can sit at the table, or on the couch."

He settles at the table- it's easier to push himself up out of the hard, wooden chairs. Beau sits on the couch across the room and stares at him. He stares back for a moment before dropping his eyes to the table and tracing a finger along the swirling wooden grain. They sit in silence for a moment, before-

"Are you alone? Is anybody else here?"

"If I say nobody else is here, are you going to kill me and dump my body somewhere?"

"Probably not. Murder isn't really my thing, plus you would be _way_ too easy to kill. If I'm gonna do it, I want a little bit of a challenge."

"Hurtful, but not untrue. Yes, I am alone. Astrid and Wulf are both working all day. What is so important that you couldn't say it through a call?"

Beau leans forward with a strange look in her eye. "I think I can help you get new lungs."

"Beauregard, I will _not_ accept any money from you-"

"No, no, no, are you kidding? I can't afford that shit. No, but I know somebody who might be able to help."

"Who? Some sort of… what, benefactor? I do not want to be indebted to some _stranger-_ "

"No! Just shut up and listen. You're smart. You know not everybody who gets a transplant goes through the official channels. There's some surgeons out there who don't necessarily work for GeneCo." She huffs at the look of confusion on Caleb's face. " _So_ , you're not gonna have to pay GeneCo prices with these guys. Especially the one I have in mind. He's like… He just wants to help people. He won't even charge anything if you can't afford it. Like, he's cool with bartering and favors and stuff like that."

Caleb laughs. "You, a GeneCo employee, are telling me to go to a back-alley surgeon for an illegal lung transplant? I'm sick, not stupid, and I feel like there are other, more lucrative targets to set up for this… sting operation, or whatever it is."

"No, you don't get it, I'm-" Beautiful huffs again, irritated, and gets up, sitting down across from him at the table. In a hushed voice, she says, "I'm not loyal to GeneCo. Neither is Dairon. They're part of this fuckin'... secret order or something that provides basic healthcare to people who can't afford it. Haven't you noticed we've been undercharging you for all the shit we do?"

Caleb chokes. "That was _under_ charging? _Mein Gott im Himmel…_ "

"Yeah. So… Look, will you at least meet this guy?"

"I do not want a _criminal_ in my _home-_ "

"You already have one! I'm _right here_!"

He groans, and rests his head on his crossed arms.

After a few seconds of silence, Beau says softly, "Caleb. Let me help you, okay? Just meet the guy for me. I'll come with. It won't be today, and you don't have to do anything but meet him. But I'm not gonna leave you to die because you think you don't have any other choice."

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the tears at bay. He isn't ready to cry in front of Beau. When he's sure he has control of his voice, he says, "Fine. I'll meet him. But if this is some sort of a plot to kill me, I swear I will haunt you for the rest of your life."

"I'm not going to kill you! God, you're paranoid."

"It has kept me alive this long, _ja_?"

"Barely," she scoffs, then sighs. "Look. You're not a complete piece of shit and I think it would suck if you died before you could actually, like… _experience_ stuff. So yeah. I'll take you to meet Cad and you guys can talk and maybe work something out, I don't know. But it's worth a shot."

Caleb hums in agreement as his stomach growls. He looks to Beauregard, then to the fridge. "If you are hungry, I believe there is enough chicken noodle soup for two."

"Oh. Uh. Thanks, but I don't wanna eat your soup. Not in a rude way, just like, it's _yours_ and you probably need it more than me-"

"Please," he says, "I would appreciate it if you would enjoy some soup with me. Call it a dying wish."

"Okay, now that's just fuckin' cheating," Beau grumbles, but she lets Caleb heat up a bowl of soup for her. They eat mostly in silence, but simply having another person there is enough to make the small, dark apartment feel just a little bigger and brighter.

* * *

Nearly eight hours have passed since their scheduled appointment time when the door to the office opens, and the now-familiar secretary steps through with an apologetic look on her face.

"I am _terribly_ sorry but there's been a… miscommunication, and Mr. Ikithon won't be able to see you today. If you'd like to reschedule, just call the same number you scheduled this one through. Again, my apologies."

As the secretary turns her back to leave, they move in tandem, and it’s almost like a dance- Astrid lunges for her wrists, and Eodwulf wraps an arm around her neck until her chin is lined up neatly with the crook of his elbow. They don’t collide, but flow smoothly around each other, like they’ve been rehearsing this, despite the fact that they haven't exchanged so much as a word in the past three hours of waiting. The secretary gasps as her head is tilted back and Wulf’s arm tightens around her throat.

“We _need_ to see him,” Astrid hisses, and she squeezes the woman’s wrists so hard she knows they’ll bruise. “You’re going to call him out here or my partner is going to crush your throat.”

The secretary makes a choked sound, struggling against the two of them, but desperate adrenaline is pumping through Astrid’s veins, and this woman is much too small to do anything against Wulf. 

“I’ll- call him, please-” She draws in a raspy breath, and Wulf takes a step forward, forcing her to move with him.

“Is the door unlocked?” He asks, and Astrid can hear the desperation in his voice. This is stupid, this is _dangerous_ , but together they’ve reached a point of no return and the only way to go is forward. 

“Y-yes,” she struggles to draw a breath, and Wulf’s eyes flick to Astrid, then the door. 

“Don’t move your hands or I’ll break your fingers,” she growls before releasing the woman’s wrists and testing the door handle. It turns easily enough, and she swings it open. Wulf all but lifts the secretary up as he moves forward, and her hands come up to clutch his arm, trying to relieve some of the pressure on her throat. 

The room is dimly lit by a few decorative electric sconces and what appear to be a series of screens showing various rooms and hallways. There is an enormous, polished wooden desk in the center and a high-backed chair that is turned away from the door.

“Mister Ikithon-” the secretary gasps, and her nails dig harsh red crescents into Wulf’s arm. Astrid pries her hands off of him and jerks them back behind her, unable to hear the woman's grunt of pain over the pounding of blood in her ears.

Slowly, the chair starts to turn, and sitting there is an old man with long, white hair and yellowed skin. Trent Ikithon rests his forearms on his desk and laces his fingers together with a smile that sends a chill down Astrid’s spine.

“Good afternoon. I understand you have an appointment?”

Neither Wulf nor Astrid speak for a moment, and the room is silent save for the gasping of the secretary. This is _not_ the expected reaction from Trent Ikithon- although they aren’t sure what they expected his reaction to be. That said, unfazed and polite seems wildly inappropriate for the situation, and it catches them both off guard.

Astrid finds her words first. “We _had_ an appointment, _sir_ , but were told you couldn’t see us today after we waited for eight hours.”

“I see. I do apologize for the wait, but I am a _very_ busy man. That said, I can appreciate patience and… dedication to a cause.” His eyes flick to the frightened face of his secretary before meeting Astrid’s once more. “So, tell me. Who are you, and why are you here?”

Blue eyes meet brown, and Astrid nods. Wulf clears his throat. “My name is Eodwulf Becker, and this is Astrid Bachmann. We… we need to open a line of credit.”

Trent Ikithon cocks his head curiously, then bares his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. 

“An interesting approach to the application process. Aren't there banks you can negotiate with to take out a loan?”

"No. Not anymore. We are… medical students at the Soltryce School of Medicine."

"So you have already taken out as much as you can to pay for your education. I see." His voice is like oil, flowing slickly and leaving a distinctly unpleasant sensation behind. "So why come to me, I wonder? Surely you know that GeneCo is not a bank, nor are we a charity."

"Our- our partner is sick. He needs new lungs. But we're already behind on medical bills for his current treatments and we don't know that…" Wulf trails off.

"We don't know that he will survive until we have enough money to afford the procedure," Astrid finishes, and the secretary yelps as her grip tightens momentarily with the confession.

"I see. And your... _partner_ , was it? What makes his survival worthwhile to me? Give me a reason to invest my time and money."

A thick anger burns in Wulf's stomach at the words, but he forces it to stay down. They are already balanced on a razor's edge, holding a woman hostage in the office of the most powerful man in the city. This wasn't part of the plan. In fact, this is about as far from the plan as things could have possibly gone. They are one false step away from plummeting straight into prison- if Ikithon doesn't simply have them shot where they stand. So he pushes his anger at having to justify a human life to the side, and responds,

"Think about the press- 'GeneCo founder and CEO saves life of dying orphan with so much to live for'. He is a medical student, as well. The top of his class- at least, he was before he got sick. He's smart, hardworking, and his goal is to be a doctor for GeneCo. He could contribute so much to your company, could heal so many people, or-" His voice catches- the next thing he has to say is necessary to the argument, but it makes bile rise in his throat. "Or he could refer so many people for surgery."

"Interesting. So you do know how this game is played." Ikithon sits back in his chair, watching them for a moment. He doesn't seem upset about his secretary; he has barely acknowledged that she's in the room, much less that she's in a chokehold by a stranger. 

When he speaks again, it's with a weight that nearly crushes the breath from Astrid's lungs.

"I will not give you a loan. But I _will_ review your files and see if your medical credentials are of any interest to me. If your talents pique my interest, I'm sure we can work something out. I am always in need of skilled hands, and the two of you have shown, to be honest, an _impressive_ willingness to do what needs to be done. That is the kind of dedication I value in my employees. Tell me, what were you going to do to her, had I refused to meet with you?"

"Hurt her until you saw reason." Astrid's voice is hard, and she's only partially sure she's lying. She's never taken a hostage before- twelve hours prior she would have said that she never _would_ take a hostage. She wants to believe that she wouldn't _really_ hurt an innocent woman, but- hasn't she already?

"Interesting. Yes, I think we'll be in touch soon. If you wouldn't mind letting her go on your way out, it was rather hard to find someone so adept at, ah… finding information."

Yet again, Eodwulf and Astrid exchange a look, before Wulf takes his arm off her throat and Astrid uses her grip on the woman's wrists to shove her forward. She falls to her knees and puts a hand to her throat, gasping.

" _Thank_ you. And do close the door on your way out."

They leave and all but run out of the building, the gravity of the situation fully set in and the fear that some sort of security team will be waiting to neutralize them in the lobby looming over the two of them. But they make it out of the building unscathed, and sprint the rest of the way home.

Back in the office of Trent Ikithon, he turns his chair to look at the monitors on the wall, including the one that shows the waiting area just outside his office.

"Interesting. Yes, I think they'll be a useful addition to the team. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like as much information on Eodwulf Becker and Astrid Bachmann as you can get. I'd like to know who this partner of theirs is. Find him, and prepare contracts for the… _hiring_ of two new Repossession Assistants." He turns his chair back to the woman, still on the ground. "Did you get all of that?"

"Yes, Mr. Ikithon," she croaks, and climbs unsteadily to her feet, one hand still massaging her throat.

"On my desk by tomorrow morning, please." With that, he turns his attention back to the monitors. As he watches his two new-hires-to-be run down the street like the hounds of hell are nipping at their heels, his lips curl into a smile.


	6. Night Surgeons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you once again to my beta! They were a huge help in making this chapter what it is, and their feedback has been beyond invaluable, if such a thing is even possible. 
> 
> Please heed the tag updates! This is the chapter where "Repo!-typical violence" really starts to come into play, and for those of you unfamiliar with the source material, imagine that the producers of the Saw movies went and made a rock opera about organ repossession, because that's exactly what Repo! The Genetic Opera is, and from this point forward, there will be more graphic violence.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: panic attacks, dissociation, a lot of vomiting, Astrid and Wulf lying to Caleb, mention of parental murder, graphic descriptions of murder and dissection/mutilation of a human corpse, and Trent Ikithon.

Astrid is taking orders for a party of twelve men in suits and varying stages of intoxication when her HoloWatch starts to buzz softly. She tries to ignore it, to focus on the job, but it doesn't stop, and after three rings, the nearest man puts his hand on her arm and looks up at her with slightly unfocused eyes 

"Sweetie, do you need to get that? Don' want your husband gettin' jealous." He laughs to himself before taking another swig of beer. Astrid smiles politely, but a mix of anger and disgust starts to swirl in her gut. Her eyes flick to the screen and bile rises in her throat as she sees the black words on a green screen,

**INCOMING MESSAGE FROM**

**TRENT IKITHON**

Static fills her ears, and she mumbles an excuse that she can't hear and all but sprints to the kitchen and shuts herself in the walk-in freezer.

"Yes, sir?" She's breathless and she feels like she might throw up.

The reception is bad with the thick freezer walls, but his voice is clear even through the static.

"Astrid Bachmann. Be in my office at midnight tonight if you are still interested in what we discussed. I recommend wearing something you don't feel strongly about."

The call ends before she can say anything, and the words rattle around her head, repeating and blurring until she can't breathe-

"Hey, Bachmann, get outta the fuckin'- holy shit, are you okay? Hey!"

There's a pair of big, warm hands on her shoulders as the sous chef shakes her. Her back and legs suddenly burn with cold, and she realizes she's on the floor, back against the wall and knees hugged to her chest. She can see how shaky her breathing is in the cold air, and as she comes back to herself, her entire body aches from the cold and she starts to shake.

"-fuckin' hell, c'mon, get up-" The dwarf woman pulls her to her feet and steadies her as she sways. "You look like a goddamn Z addict, girlie. You better not be messing with that shit or I'll cook you into soup and feed you to all them bougie fucks out there."

"N-no, it's-" Her brain whirs- tonight will go one of two ways; either Trent will kill her and Wulf or he won't, and both possibilities are terrifying. Why had they _done_ that? It had been so stupid, so reckless, and for what? What's going to happen to Caleb when they're dead and stripped for parts? Neither she nor Wulf have any kind of life insurance- maybe he can sell their stuff but he won't get enough for it and _god_ , he's going to die alone in their shitty apartment because she had been desperate instead of rational-

"You need to go home. Sleep off whatever this is. And don't come in all fucked up again, hear? I ain't gonna snitch on you but not everybody here is lookin' out for you. Now, can you walk?"

It takes her a few steps before Astrid has her legs under her again, and even when she does, she's still unsteady. Everything around her is a blur, and she thinks she can hear herself apologizing, though she's not sure to whom.

She must get her coat and her purse before she leaves because the next thing she knows, she's walking down the street, headed home and wrapped in the worn red wool that used to belong to her mother. Her senses come back to her all at once in an overwhelming wave, and she has to lean against the storefront to what looks like some kind of pawn shop to keep from collapsing onto the sidewalk. Her hands are still shaking, and she can taste blood from where she must've bitten her tongue. She covers her face with her hands, pressing her palms against her eyes and forcing herself to breathe.

She counts to fifty before she starts to feel less hollow. A glance at her wrist shows that it's only 6:30pm- five and a half hours until-

Her hands go back over her eyes and she counts to fifty again. 

And again.

Finally she can hear the sounds of the street instead of the rush of blood in her ears, can feel the cold air biting at her exposed fingers. As she pulls her hands from her face, her vision stays dark for a second before returning in an explosion of light and color. The neon shop signs and weakly flickering street lamps make her eyes ache, but she blinks the pain away and calls Eodwulf.

" _Ja_?" His voice is muffled and soft, like he's hiding in a closet. Immediately, Astrid knows he got the call.

"I'm going home," she says, and to prove it to herself, she starts walking. "I want to see him before we-"

" _Ja_. Me too. I've been calling clients and canceling in between throwing up." He laughs hoarsely, humorlessly, and now Astrid can perfectly envision him locked in a bathroom stall, sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, waiting to be sick again.

She wishes she could hold his hair, rub his back, make sure he's drinking water. But all she says is, "I'll see you at home." Nothing else feels worth saying.

" _Ja_ ," he says, and the call ends.

Astrid runs her fingers through her hair, finding it damp with sweat, and swallows down the nausea that's taken Wulf. She walks faster, her second-hand kitten heels clicking on the concrete. She has no idea what she's going to say or do when she gets back to the apartment, much less at midnight, but that doesn't matter. The only thing she can think of is Caleb and telling him she loves him before she and Wulf go running into the jaws of Trent Ikithon. Like lambs to the slaughter. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The clock reads **6:37** and Caleb's head swims. He has twenty-three minutes before Beau is due to come by, and time is moving impossibly slowly. He's not sure if it's the fever or the anticipation, or perhaps some combination of the two, but whatever the reason, every minute seems to stretch on for an eternity. It's been a bad day for breathing and a worse day for staying awake, but he's supposed to meet this… _Caduceus_ figure, and he doesn't know if he has the luxury of canceling, nor the time to schedule a new appointment. Plus Astrid and Eodwulf are both working late, so he should have plenty of time to leave and come back.

Slowly, he pushes himself up and out of bed, and starts the painstaking process of getting dressed. He doesn't have the time or energy to shower, especially if he's going to be walking any distance, so he ties his greasy hair up into a ponytail and hopes that he doesn't smell too awful. He takes a little of Wulf's cologne and, after a moment, a little of Astrid's perfume. At least now he'll smell like something other than sickness, even if that something is floral woodsmoke.

The front door to the apartment starts to rattle as Caleb steps into his jeans, and his heart leaps into his throat. It's too early for it to be Beauregard, especially considering she's typically fifteen minutes late to everything, and neither of his partners should be back so early. He freezes in place, and listens for anything- the sound of a voice, the turn of a key, the scrape of a metal pipe the intruder might try and bash his skull in with-

" _Kätzchen_? Are you awake? I'm home early, work was slow and they had to start sending people home." Astrid's voice sends a wave of relief through him, then a wave of panic. He won't be able to leave if she's home- or worse, she might want to come with him. The idea of dragging her and Wulf into an illegal street operation and everything that comes with it without him having a chance to vet it first makes his skin crawl. He's put them through enough already.

"In here," he says, and quickly steps out of his pants and throws them to the side. His hands come to rest on the dresser in front of him, and he takes as deep a breath as he can. 

"Why are you out of bed?" Astrid stands in the doorway, and she's a mess. Her face is flushed from the cold and her hair is mussed and tangled like she's been running her hands through it. 

"Because I'm going to get bedsores if I don't move a little. What happened, _Schatz_ , are you alright?"

"I'm fine. It's windy outside." She combs her fingers through her hair and grimaces as they catch on knot after knot.

Caleb moves to the bathroom, then comes back with her hairbrush. "Take the coat off, _ja_? Let me help."

Astrid nods, suddenly unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She shrugs out of the coat and strips out of her work uniform until she's in her camisole and underwear, and sits on the floor between Caleb's legs. He's so _careful_ with her hair, never tugging or getting impatient, just working out the knots and tangles. Before she even realizes it's happening, big fat tears are falling from Astrid's eyes, endless and burning hot. She tries to keep her shoulders from shaking and her breath from hitching but even so, she ends up wrapped in Caleb's thin, weak arms, face pressed to his stomach as her tears soak through the fabric of his shirt. Her arms fit so easily around his waist, and she clings to him and cries and cries until she can't breathe.

And all the while, Caleb strokes her hair and tells her everything will be okay.

Neither of them hear Wulf come in, and they both start when he stumbles through the bedroom doorway. He looks awful- his skin is pale and slick with sweat, and he smells faintly of vomit.

"Wulf-" Caleb holds out a hand towards him, but Wulf shakes his head and stumbles past the bed into the bathroom. They can hear him turning on the tap and splashing his face before rinsing out his mouth over and over. Caleb looks questioningly at Astrid, but she only shakes her head before scrubbing harshly at her eyes and nose with the backs and palms of her hands. Her skin is red and splotchy by the time she's done, and it's still obvious she's been crying, but at least her face is mostly dry of snot and tears. In the bathroom, Eodwulf starts to brush his teeth.

Astrid uses Caleb's knees to push herself to her feet and moves to the bathroom to check on Wulf. Caleb sits still for a moment, and is debating going to get Wulf a glass of water when his HoloWatch starts to vibrate with an incoming call from Beau. His heart leaps into his throat, and he lurches forward off the bed.

"Going to get Wulf some water!" He gasps out, and answers the call as he stumbles to the kitchen. 

"Hey, I'm almost there, are you ready?"

"Beauregard," he hisses, trying to keep as quiet as possible, "I cannot make it tonight, Astrid and Wulf both came home early and I think something is wrong-"

"What? Can't you just, I dunno, sneak out? Tell them you're running to the store?"

"I know you can't see my face but I want you to imagine it from my tone of voice."

"Okay, well, imagine me flipping you off. Seriously though? You really can't come?"

"No, and- something isn't right, Astrid just cried on me for nearly fifteen minutes and Wulf looks like he's been vomiting-"

"Gross. Well… good luck with all of that, I guess? I'll tell Cad there was a last-minute issue, he'll understand. Just let me know the next time they'll be out and we'll reschedule." She pauses, then adds, "And don't say anything fuckin' melodramatic about 'time running out' or whatever, okay? We'll make this work."

"Sure." Caleb doesn't have the time nor the energy to argue with her, so he doesn't, even though he feels in his gut that the next time they'll both be available will be too late for him.

"Okay, well… sorry. Hope everything is okay. Call me tomorrow." The call ends with a soft _zzt_ , and Caleb braces himself against the counter, catching his breath before fixing a glass of water for Wulf and heading back to the bedroom.

He finds Wulf sitting on the edge of the mattress and Astrid beside him, rubbing his back. Their heads are close, and they both look up at Caleb with something that, for just a moment, looks like guilt.

"Here," he hands the cup to Wulf, who looks surprised, then grateful, then sad. Caleb's heart sinks, and he suddenly feels as nauseated as Wulf looks. 

"Something is obviously wrong, please don't leave me out of this, I- I feel less human for every day I stay in this fucking apartment alone and if you start leaving me out of your lives because you don't want to cause me stress, I will go insane. Please."

Astrid looks struck, and Wulf looks sick, and they both avert their eyes. There's a moment of complete silence before Wulf speaks.

"Astrid lost her job. Something about budget issues and cutbacks with the restaurant. And I was just stupid enough to eat a tuna salad sandwich from the corner store for lunch."

"Oh, _Schatz_..." Caleb moves closer to the bed, pulling Astrid into a hug as he sits. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Over Caleb's shoulder, Astrid raises an eyebrow and Wulf shrugs.

"I didn't want to worry you. But you're right, it isn't fair to leave you out of things. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just… the fragility is only physical, _ja_? I can't take being left out of anything else." 

Astrid's arms wrap around his thin frame as she hugs him, and his body is burning hot. She tucks her face into his shoulder and before long, Wulf's arms are around the both of them and she can smell the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. She feels tears welling in her eyes again, hot and insistent, and she doesn't try to stop them from soaking into Caleb's shirt.

She hopes desperately that Ikithon doesn't kill them tonight. The thought of Caleb dying alone in this piece of shit apartment, waiting for her and Wulf to come home as he slowly drowns in the fluid filling his lungs makes her chest ache so badly she wants to scream. She feels a drop of wetness on the back of her head just moments before she hears Wulf take a shuddering breath, and she knows that he's thinking the same thing. 

Caleb's hand runs up and down her back soothingly, and she both feels and hears him start to hum. As the vibrations of his humming rumble through her chest and up her spine, something inside of her hardens. In that moment, she knows with absolute certainty that she _will_ be coming back from the meeting tonight, she and Eodwulf both. They will _not_ leave Caleb to die alone in this hovel. They will come back if she has to kill someone with her bare hands to do it. Her tears stop, but she stays pressed close to Caleb for as long as she can.

_Just in case this is the last time_ , she tries not to let herself think.

* * *

Caleb falls asleep shortly after ten o'clock, and is still gently snoring by the time Astrid and Eodwulf creep out of the apartment and quietly lock the door behind themselves. As they walk down the quiet street, their hands come together and their fingers intertwine. The dry heat of Wulf's hand only emphasizes how cold and sweat-damp Astrid's is, but she doesn't pull her hand away. That small, physical connection to Wulf feels like the only thing keeping her grounded, like if she lets go she's not sure where she'll end up.

The walk to GeneCo feels like a dream, hazy and just a little nonsensical. The words on old, worn posters advertising new surgeries blur into gibberish pasted over ancient brick walls. Wulf can hear himself talking, can feel the vibration of his vocal chords and the movement of his lips, but he has no idea what he's saying. But he talks and talks until they step into the elevator and Astrid claps a hand over his mouth. He stops talking and shuts his eyes as his brain catches up to his body. 

"Are you good?" Astrid whispers, looking just on the edge of panic. 

He considers, then licks the palm of her hand. It tastes like sweat and iron and Astrid pulls it away with an _"Ugh!"_ before dragging her wet hand down the length of his sleeve-covered arm.

" _Arschloch_ ," she hisses, and he grins as he wipes the spit from his chin.

The _ding_ of the elevator door sliding open wipes the smile from his face with brutal efficiency. They step into the waiting room that they are *intimately* familiar with, and see that the door to Trent's office is already open. The clock on the wall reads **11:57** , and Wulf gives Astrid's hand a squeeze before letting it go. With an uneasy glance between them, they move quietly across the room. 

In his office, Trent Ikithon sits at his desk, smiling at them. The screens on the wall behind him are dark, but the rest of the room is well-lit, much brighter than it was the first time they were in it. With better lighting and no hostage, they are able to take in details they hadn't noticed the first time. There is an antique couch that looks deeply uncomfortable directly across from Trent's desk, and two equally uncomfortable-looking armchairs on either side of it. The walls are covered in heavy curtains with no way to tell what might be behind them- there could be windows, doors, paintings, more screens, or just plain drywall.

"Thank you both for coming. Please, have a seat." He gestures at the couch with a long-fingered hand, and Astrid and Eodwulf obey. 

"First off, I would like to congratulate you both on your new employment. It is a great honor to work for GeneCo, and you have been chosen to do a very important job." 

Trent pauses and smiles, and Wulf feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

"Now, I believe you said your partner is in need of a lung transplant, yes? One Bren Aldrich Ermendrud? Although he goes by Caleb Ermendrud-Widogast now, doesn't he? Rather sentimental of him to have taken his mother's maiden name as well, but I suppose it's as good a way to honor her as any. He has been visiting one of my clinics for a while now, and his health has been declining rather quickly." He flips over a sheet of paper on his desk and glances at it. "The poor boy really has been through a lot, hasn't he? Yes, I can imagine you're both tired of seeing him suffer. And I think that between the three of us, we can help your dear Caleb."

Eodwulf feels a now-familiar nausea start to roil in his stomach, but he pushes it down. Of _course_ Trent Ikithon knows everything about Caleb. And he almost certainly knows everything about him and Astrid, down to the time he broke his wrist at age seven falling out of bed. He'd had to wear a neon-green cast for over a month, and Caleb had drawn a cat on it while Astrid had written a short poem. He wishes he could remember what it was- something about flowers and glue, almost certainly nonsensical, but suddenly it's all he can think about.

"We would be honored to work for GeneCo," Astrid says, thankfully not as lost in memories as Wulf. "I promise, sir, we will work hard and do whatever is asked of us. And- and you will help him get new lungs? Soon?"

"As long as I'm satisfied with your work."

"What will our work be, exactly? Sir?" Wulf manages to shake himself out of his reverie in time to ask the question he knows is sitting as heavily in Astrid's mind as it is in his own.

The smile on Trent's face manages somehow to grow wider, and his eyes shine with an excitement that sparks dull terror in Wulf's already-churning stomach.

"Why don't I show you? Or rather, you can show me. We'll call this your orientation." He stands up and gestures for Astrid and Eodwulf to do the same. "You'll want to get changed for this. The first time can be especially messy."

Neither one of them tries to hide the dread painted all over their faces. This can only be going in one direction, and as they enter the elevator with Trent and it begins to descend, it takes everything in Wulf not to reach for Astrid's hand again.

The elevator finally stops when they're well below ground, and the doors open with a cheery _ding_ to reveal a dimly-lit hallway ending in a set of double doors. Each door has a glass pane, and on both panes in large black font are the words **CAUTION: COMBAT TRAINING AREA**.

"We may need to have your outfit tailored, Ms. Bachmann. I don't think we've ever had a repo man quite your size."

Astrid thinks she might distantly hear him chuckling and saying something about _a repo **woman** , rather_, but her ears are buzzing with static. The difference between thinking and knowing is staggering- of course she's been _thinking_ that whatever Trent is going to make them do is ugly, shady work, but _knowing_ that she and Wulf are about to become the bogeymen of their childhoods sends her reeling. 

She remembers other children in the apartment complex her parents lived in being scolded for roughhousing, their parents saying, _don't you do that again or the repo man will come and take you away_. She remembers other teenagers in high school laughing about repo man ghost stories, but always with an edge of uncertainty. She remembers the man on the street who begged them for money just a few weeks ago. Maybe this is some convoluted joke on Trent’s part, some ploy to put them on-edge so he can do… something. She isn’t sure exactly what else he could have in mind, but her brain cannot conceptualize the idea that she and Wulf may be moments away from becoming legal assassins.

Astrid’s heart sinks as she and Wulf are shown to a changing room and each given a large black coat with shoulder-high detachable gloves, a rubber apron, and a pair of heavy, thick-soled boots. The gloves have GeneCo patches near the shoulders, and the coat is heavy and smooth, and feels like something between rubber and leather. Astrid’s fingers trace over the side seam of the coat again and again and she imagines her fingers coming away bloody. Wulf is sitting on a bench across from her, staring at the folded coat on his lap numbly. All the while, Trent Ikithon stands in the doorway watching them.

“Will you require any assistance getting dressed?”

“Shouldn’t we have masks?” Wulf asks, and Astrid remembers _yes, repo men wear masks, because they aren't terrifying enough in just shin-length black coats_.

“You will receive masks, but believe me when I say you’ll be more comfortable without them. They’re more to protect your identity, and that will not be an issue tonight.” 

"Thank you, sir," Wulf says, and it's strange to hear those words from his mouth without sarcasm behind them. 

"As I said, Astrid, your gear will need some modifications, but we don't have time for that tonight and I'd like to see how you perform in adverse conditions. My _sincerest_ apologies in advance." Trent watches them for just a moment more, leering, before heading back to the hallway to wait.

Astrid and Wulf exchange a look before Wulf pushes himself to his feet, toes out of his shoes, and slips into the boots. There are laces and buckles and he fumbles clumsily with them until Astrid bats his hands away and helps him to tighten them. She ends up helping him into the coat and gloves as well, since his hands are shaking too badly to manage any of the smaller buckles and clips by himself.

As she finishes attaching his apron, Astrid realizes that every part of the repo man outfit is designed for sturdiness, mobility, and coverage. The gloves attach to the coat at the shoulders, and the coat is cinched at the waist with a band that looks like a cross between a belt and a back brace. The apron snaps onto D-rings at the shoulders and waist, and the coat snaps together across the chest. Images of desperate fingers clawing at the material, trying to find a weak spot or just something to cling to, flash through her mind. 

When she finally steps back and _looks_ at him, her stomach drops. Despite the fear on his face, he looks terrifying, the stuff of cautionary tales and nightmares.

He also looks _good_ , and that thought frightens her much more than his appearance does.

As she gets herself dressed, she finds out that her own outfit is far too big for her small frame- the coat that ends mid-shin for Wulf all but drags on the floor for her, and the gloves are so loose around her hands that she can't buckle anything with them on, barely has the dexterity to even pick up the apron. The boots are of _course_ too big, and her feet slide around with each step she takes. In her frustration at the outfit, she forgets for a moment what she's doing and where she is, and curses under her breath as she wriggles, trying to get _any_ part of the gear to settle comfortably.

There's a snort from behind her, and she turns to see Wulf hiding his mouth behind a gloved hand and snickering at her. She glares at him and tries to take a step forward, to tell him to _help her_ , but she trips over the hem of the coat and Wulf bursts out laughing.

"Shut _up_ , you dick!" She shoves at his shoulder once she's regained her balance, but he moves just out of reach and she stumbles again. "You _ass_ , help me, these stupid gloves are too _big-_ "

"You look like you're being vored by a melting garbage bin," Wulf chokes out, "like you're up to your neck in trash bags-"

He dissolves into giggles that are cut short with a yowl when Astrid kicks his shin.

"Mother _fucker_ , Sassa, those are _steel-toed boots_ , I thought you _loved_ me-"

"Help me with the buckles, I can't do it myself, please, Wulf, I'm-" Her voice catches on the lump in her throat, and she struggles for a moment to fight back the tears. Wulf seems to have snapped out of it, because he limps over and silently helps her attach the gloves and apron.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, "for kicking you, that was a shit move-"

"It's- okay, I needed it, probably, but I think you fractured my fucking tibia-"

"I did _not_ , you baby-"

"Ahem."

They both turn to look at the doorway and see a complete stranger. It's a young woman, a halfling, with short dark hair and a cold expression. She looks over Astrid and sighs.

"We'll have you measured and get a new outfit made to actually fit you after today. Can you function adequately in that one for now?"

Astrid nods.

"Good. Come with me, then."

She leads them back to the hallway with the double doors and back to Trent. He eyes them both and turns to the woman.

"See to it that Ms. Bachmann gets the necessary alterations. She will need to be able to move without tripping but for now, this will do."

"Yes, sir." 

He turns back to Eodwulf and Astrid with a smile. "Well then. I think it's time to find out if my suspicions about you were correct." He leers as he moves behind them and starts shepherding them towards the doors. "Please don't disappoint me." And he pushes them both forwards, through the doors.

The room is _cold_ , like a walk-in freezer but so much larger. Astrid can see her breath, can see frost-covered chains and meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, can see Trent and the woman circling around to stand on either side of her and Wulf. And as she continues to take in the room, she sees a sheet-covered _something_ and- it's hard to be certain over the hum of the fans keeping the room cool, but she swears she can hear a low moan coming from it.

Trent tilts his head towards the thing, and the woman nods and moves over to it. With a single fluid movement, she pulls the sheet off and there, arms and legs strapped to a metal chair, is a man. He's gagged with a strip of cloth, and his eyes widen when he sees Astrid and Wulf. He begins to struggle against his restraints, to try and beg through the gag, but all that comes out is muffled wailing.

Trent walks over to the man, steps echoing in the vast room, and places a hand almost gently against the top of his head. Then his fingers twist into the greasy, knotted hair and he wrenches the man's head back, never taking his eyes off Eodwulf and Astrid. They must look as horrified as they feel, because he tuts disapprovingly.

"Don't give him that look. He doesn't deserve it. I picked an easy one for your first training. His payment is late by nearly four months- _more_ than enough time to scrape something together. And do you know how he was going to pay?" The man lets out a ragged, muffled scream as Trent pushes his head back further. "He was going to kill his own mother and collect on her life insurance. Too bad it wouldn't have been enough."

He shoves the man's head forward, releasing his grip on the filthy hair and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his hand before gesturing to a small metal cart. On it are a number of surgical instruments, as well as some tools distinctly designed _not_ to be used on humans.

“You’re welcome to use any of these instruments for this job. I was kind enough to trust this man with a new pancreas, and he did not hold up his end of the bargain. I would like my pancreas back in working condition. And I would like for you to retrieve it. There are two of you and one of him, so this should be an easy enough task.”

Astrid forces herself to take a breath as she realizes she hasn’t been breathing, and the sudden cold air burns her throat. Her vision starts to swim, and she shakes her head, trying to clear it.

“Do we… Are we supposed to k-kill him?”

“Well, you would have to be _incredibly_ careful to remove his pancreas without killing him, so yes, I suppose you are.”

Beside her, Wulf retches, and she instinctively starts to reach for his hand before realizing what she’s doing and forcing her hand to stay by her side. Her eyes meet those of the bound and gagged man, and she has never seen a look like that on another human being's face. There's a raw, animalistic fear in his eyes that makes her wonder if she looks as much like a predator to him as he does prey to her.

“I know the first time can be hard, but as I said, I've made this an easy job for you. The pancreas is easy to find, and this man is a _monster_. But if you don’t think you can do it…”

_Don’t disappoint me._

“We can do it.” Wulf sounds much more certain than he feels, but he knows they have no other choice. They’ve seen too much, done too much. There is no going back- if they don’t kill this man, Trent Ikithon will kill them. He'll kill them, and Caleb will die alone in their bed wondering why the people who loved him abandoned him, and that can't happen. He can feel that Astrid has come to the same conclusion by the way she stands just a little taller beside him. She has to hike up her coat before she can take the first step forward, and he’s not sure if the hesitation in her movement is because she’s trying not to trip, or because she’s afraid. It takes her several tries to pick up a scalpel from the cart with her too-thick, too-big gloves, but once she has it in hand, she faces the man and Wulf can’t leave her standing there alone. 

The man writhes and screams into the gag as Eodwulf picks up a knife and limps to stand behind him. His eyes meet Astrid’s, and she gives a small nod just before he draws the blade across the man’s unshaven neck. He doesn’t put enough pressure behind the movement, though, and while the knife is sharp enough to split the skin, he doesn’t go deep enough to sever the carotid arteries. The man screams and thrashes harder, and Wulf feels cold panic run through him. He fumbles for the man’s hair and pulls his neck taut before slicing again, pressing the blade deeper into the meat of his throat, half-cutting and half-sawing until both sides of his neck are slit.

Astrid is close enough that the resulting spray of blood hits her chest and chin and she freezes, looking as horrified as Wulf feels. He doesn’t drop the knife, though he wants to, but he lets go of the man’s hair as he gurgles and chokes and bleeds out.

“Very good,” Trent says, though he sounds miles away. “Now the pancreas, please.”

Eodwulf can’t get his legs to move, but Astrid doesn’t seem to have that problem. She tightens her fist around the handle of the scalpel and, with a clumsy swipe, cuts through the fabric of his thin, damp shirt and into him. The man twitches, still alive enough to feel the pain of the blade, but Astrid doesn’t stop. She carves into him sloppily, desperately, until she can shove her hand into his torso and start pulling his stomach out. She’s cursing under her breath and, Wulf can see, crying as she tries again and again to get ahold of the slick, wet organ with her too-big gloves. When she finally pulls it out, she drops it to the floor with a wet _slap_ and looks to Wulf with wide, desperate eyes. He finally gets his legs to move, and Astrid steps out of his way so that he can carefully remove the pancreas from the now-dead man’s body. It’s warm in his hands through the gloves and steams slightly in the cold air. He turns to Trent, his heart in his throat.

“Where would you like this, sir?”

Trent Ikithon smiles back at him, all teeth and gums and eager eyes. “My assistant will take care of it, thank you.”

The woman appears behind him holding a transparent plastic bag open, and once Wulf drops the pancreas in, she seals it and scribbles a series of numbers and letters onto the outside before taking it through a door hidden behind the hanging sheets of plastic that border the room. The body of the man they killed and butchered steams in the cold air as blood drips from his slit throat onto the floor. Trent smiles and opens his mouth to speak, and Wulf throws up.

“Ah. That’s alright. It can be difficult the first time through. But you both did wonderfully. I’m so proud.”

Astrid nods numbly as Wulf puts his hands on his knees and retches.

“Thank you, sir,” she hears herself say.

“Well. I’m very happy with what I’ve seen here today. I would like to see how you do with some better-fitting gear, Astrid, but just one or two more training sessions and I believe you’ll be ready to head out on your own.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says again. She wonders if she’s capable of saying anything else at the moment.

“I’ll contact you when we have that ready. But congratulations to you both on becoming official GeneCo employees. I think we will do great things together." His smile is nearly feral at this point, like there's nothing human left in it. "And I will start arranging a transplant for your partner.”

They’re led back to the changing room, and as they strip out of the repo gear, they find their clothes soaked with sweat. Astrid’s face has small spatters of blood on it, and Wulf is deathly pale. The halfling woman reappears with a tape measure, and Astrid stands quietly as she takes measurements of her arms and legs and torso and waist. They leave the blood- and viscera-covered gear in a pile on the floor and walk quietly back to the elevator. Trent bids them good evening at the ground floor, and they walk out into the cold night air together. They don’t hold hands, this time, and when they get home, Astrid takes a shower so hot her skin turns red while Wulf kneels in front of the toilet and coughs up bile. 

Caleb, blessedly, sleeps through it all, and by the time they’re both clean of blood and vomit, they’re exhausted. Nothing feels real as they climb into bed and Astrid presses herself to Wulf’s chest. She doesn’t cry anymore- she isn't sure she has any tears left. Her head swims and swims, and as she closes her eyes and breathes in the scent of Wulf around her, she tries not to remember what the man who begged for money on the street looked like. She tries not to imagine what he might look like after a week of captivity, not allowed to bathe or shave or move from the chair he'd be tied to. She almost manages to convince herself that the man they killed doesn't fit the image in her mind.

Almost.

She wishes desperately that dreams will not find her tonight, but doesn't hold out hope.


	7. Things You See In A Graveyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You already know how this is going to start, and that's by thanking my beta for continuing to be the best of the best. They have consistently been reading through this fic and putting up with late-night DMs about this AU, and for that I am eternally grateful.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: descriptions of respiratory illness, Repo!-typical corpse desecration, needles, mention of drug use, smoking, discussions of surgery.

Caleb moves quietly- there are security guards patrolling the area, and he’s already almost been caught once. Astrid and Wulf would be horrified if they knew he was out skulking around in the middle of the night like this, but he needs to know if there's any chance Caduceus can help him. And he _needs_ the fresh air, even if it’s filtered through a mask. 

He's supposed to meet Beauregard in forty-three minutes, in the graveyard where his parents are buried. He had suggested they meet there instead of at the apartment because he hasn't been able to stop thinking about his parents, about paying them one last visit. Beau had been hesitant about him wandering around the city alone at night, but he had insisted. Caduceus having an availability on the same night that Astrid is working late at her new job (some position in a nearby clinic) and Wulf has back-to-back training sessions for _hours_ seemed like an opportunity that would be foolish to pass up, so Caleb had agreed to meet with him. And because he's not sure he'll have another chance to leave the apartment unsupervised, he wants to kill as many birds with one stone as he can, which means visiting his parents.

There are posters everywhere declaring that trespassers will be prosecuted and grave robbers will be shot on sight, but he ignores them. He's already all but dead. Plus, the fence was easy to hop even for a sick man, so they can't be _that_ concerned about security. There are other, fancier cemeteries further towards the edges of the city that are probably more protected, but this cheap, shitty plot of land is receiving the minimum amount of supervision, he's sure.

His fingers brush over the small granite marker before him, the stone cold and unyielding. It’s cleaner than most of the others around it, free of the majority of weeds and moss and other vegetation that encroach on rarely-visited spots. Equally clean is the marker right beside it. The headstones are small and simple, but he tries to take care of them every chance he gets. He uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the small amount of dirt and moss and mildew away before settling back onto the cold, hard ground.

“ _Mutti_ ,” he says softly, “how have you been? It was nice to see you on Remembrance Day. I'm sorry I haven't been out to see you since. I, ah… I haven’t been well." He laughs humorlessly. “Poorly enough that I might be seeing you and _Vater_ soon-”

His voice catches in his throat, and he goes quiet. The silence is deafening, the nearby roar of the city swallowed up by the hush of the graveyard. Why does admitting how sick he is to his mother make him feel so much worse? Maybe because he's imagining warm fingers combing through his hair and a soft, accented voice telling him _it will be okay, Bren, you will feel better soon_. But the words stay in his imagination only as silence presses in around him.

And then, suddenly, the silence is broken by a nearby, “Shit!”

Caleb jumps a bit, feels his heart rate start to rise, and his head starts to swim. He takes breath after deep breath, trying to calm himself so he doesn’t pass out and get mugged- or worse- by whoever spoke. As he breathes, he looks around, trying to find the source of the voice. Further back, near the older graves, he thinks he sees a small shape move. 

It is stupid and dangerous to go up to it, and he tells himself this as he starts to creep closer. The weeds are tall and tangled here, the graves long-forgotten, and the dense, sickly vegetation muffles his footsteps. And then- there’s a soft crunch as his foot lands on the plastic wrapping of a long-decomposed bouquet of flowers and the shape freezes and turns to look at him. In the dull moonlight, one of their eyes glows like that of a cat caught in the beam of a flashlight. They’re in shadow, and Caleb can’t quite see them, but they look _small_.

“Don’t come any closer!” Their voice is high-pitched and rough and shaky with fear. “Or I’ll cut you, I fucking mean it!”

Caleb puts his hands up to show that they’re empty, but he’s surprised to find that he’s not scared. Maybe it’s the desperate terror this stranger is radiating, or maybe the infection is just eating away at the rational part of his brain.

“I do not want to hurt you or get you in trouble,” he says softly, carefully, and takes a step forward. He realizes that he has no idea what he _does_ want out of this stupid venture. Another step, and another, and still he has no idea what he's doing.

And in no time, he's close enough to see that sitting on the ground, crouched like she's about to attack or flee, is a small female goblin. No, not a goblin, but-

The right side of her face is thick, green goblin skin surrounding a bright yellow eye with a slit pupil. The rest of her face is brown, freckled skin and her left eye is brown. Long, dark, greasy hair spills out from the hood draped over her head, and her entire body is covered in fabric and bandages. True to her word- or at least partially- she has a dagger gripped in one hand and a syringe in the other. Her eyes flick from him to something on the ground beside her, and he might not have noticed that she was hunched over a body if not for that glance.

"Ah," he says, mouth moving faster than his common sense. "You are a grave robber?"

The girl- woman?- shrinks and bares her teeth in a snarl- but they're the smooth, dull teeth of a halfling, not the jagged fangs of a goblin. "What do you _want_?" she hisses, and Caleb is starting to open his mouth to say _I don't know_ when her eyes go wide.

" _Get down_ ," she hisses, eyes locked on something behind him. " _Get down, **now**_."

Caleb turns to look over his shoulder, and sees the form of a guard moving towards them, the beam from his flashlight sweeping back and forth. He wastes no time in dropping to the cold, damp ground and crawling behind the nearest tombstone. When he looks back to the woman, she's turned her attention back to the body beside her. She's fumbling with the syringe, pushing the thick needle into the corpse's neck and cursing to herself when the syringe fills up with dark, thick goo.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she growls under her breath, and throws the syringe to the side before pulling a new one from a pouch on the ground. Her hands shake as she positions it above where the heart once was.

"Wait," Caleb whispers. Her eyes snap up to him, a wild sort of desperation shining in them. "Go through the nose. Zydrate tends to accumulate in the brain after death."

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, but she repositions the needle before pushing it slowly through the corpse's nostril. There's a moment where she has to throw her weight forward, huffing in exertion and effort as she breaks through the ethmoid bone. The _crack_ as it snaps is blessedly muffled, and a surprised grin spreads across her face as she pulls the plunger up and a dully-glowing blue liquid fills the syringe. It's not the freshest, but the way she looks at it, it could be an ice-cold glass of water in the middle of a desert.

The woman transfers the Zydrate to a brown glass vial and recaps the needle, her eyes flicking suspiciously to Caleb every few moments before she finally finishes and turns her full attention to him.

"Why did you help me? Who _are_ you?"

"My name is- my name is Caleb Widogast, and I helped you because you needed help." He's whispering, trying to keep his voice down because he can still hear the guard walking around, still catches glimpses of the flashlight beam. "Who are _you_?"

She just stares at him for a long, silent moment, sizing him up. Finally, she answers, "My name is Nott. That's-" She stops and freezes, then ducks further behind the gravestone next to her as the light sweeps her way. 

Neither of them move- Caleb barely breathes, and by the time the guard has moved on, his head is swimming. He takes a deep, slow breath, then another. And this woman, this- _Nott-_ just watches him from behind the gravestone.

Once he's no longer worried about immediately passing out, he clears his throat. "You are new to this, then? Grave robbing?"

Nott prickles at that, visibly stiffening.  "What are you, some kind of grave robbing expert? Because I've never seen you around before and also, you look _really_ sick."

Caleb holds back a laugh, because he knows if he laughs, he'll start to cough. "No. I'm just- I was in medical school."

"And what, you're some kind of weird doctor who sneaks around graveyards?"

"Ah, not quite. I am- I am dying and I wanted to visit my parents before I join them."

"Oh. Well, shit." Nott looks surprised, then apologetic. "I'm sorry. Um… Thank you for the help."

"You are welcome." He presses his lips together, thinking. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you doing this? Surely there are easier, less dangerous ways to make money."

He grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth- there really _aren't_ , not on the same scale that grave robbing can provide. Maybe Eodwulf and Astrid should've been doing this, though the thought of them putting themselves in so much danger on his behalf makes him feel sick.

"Maybe," Nott says, "but none of them are open to somebody who looks like this."

Her eyes narrow as she speaks, like she's waiting for Caleb to ask what happened, or to try and tell her _it's not that bad, surely someone out there would take pity on you_. So he nods and says nothing, and she relaxes slightly. There's still a tension to her, though, and her eyes are constantly moving, taking in their surroundings with desperate intensity.

Finally, she fixes her gaze back on Caleb and says, "Does your doctor training help you know which graves have bodies with more Zydrate in them?"

"Ah… maybe?" He bites the inside of his cheek. "If we think about it logically, probably the ones who died after '33, and then the more recent deaths would likely have more, but this is also a cemetery for, ah… less wealthy individuals."

"Poor people's bodies can have Z even if they couldn't afford surgery," the woman says, and there's a bitterness to her words. Caleb nods, feeling foolish for not thinking of that. 

He’s about to apologize when his HoloWatch starts to buzz against his wrist, and a small projected bust of Beauregard pops up. 

“Excuse me,” he says, and makes sure he’s properly hidden behind a headstone before answering.

“Hey, you here yet? I’m outside by the south fence.”

“ _Ja_ , I’m here. Give me just a moment and I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay. I’m looking at a really big gravestone with like, two angels making out on it.”

“A notable landmark, I’m sure.”

“It’s kinda hot, actually? Super weird vibes for a graveyard though.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes, Beauregard.”

“Yeah, okay. Be careful.”

The call ends, and Caleb turns to apologize to Nott only to find he’s alone. He looks around, but he can’t see any movement outside of the security guard in the distance. Standing up leaves him dizzy and breathless for a moment, but once he can see straight again, he makes his way south. It isn’t long before he sees the fence and the outline of someone on the other side of it.

Beau waves in greeting from the other side of the fence as he gets closer and Caleb can't help but smile and wave back. She's wearing all black athletic clothing, looking like she's going to the world's most casual funeral, and Caleb tells her as much.

"Shut up, I'm dressed for stealth and like, mobility. What if we have to hop fences and run?"

"Beauregard, if I have to run, I will no longer be in need of your friend's assistance because I will be dead on the ground." 

"Ah, shit, yeah. Okay, we won't run. But we _will_ have to be quiet. You can do that, right?"

Just the thought of needing to be quiet makes his throat itch, makes him want to start coughing, which is an incredibly unhelpful reaction, but he nods and clears his throat as softly as he can.

"How far away does your friend live?" He hopes she can't sense the apprehension in his voice.

"Uh, he lives pretty much on the outskirts of town, up on the north end, but we're not gonna walk there." Beau glances at her HoloWatch and nods to herself. "We have a little wiggle room, but we need to get moving if we want to make it to the pickup point on time. You need help getting out of there?"

"I don't think so. It was easy enough to get in." It takes all of his breath and energy to climb over the rusted chain-link fence, but there's a small, warm glow of pride in his chest right alongside the burning in his lungs as he rests next to Beauregard on the other side of the fence.

"That was actually pretty impressive, considering how fucked up your body is. Did you get in that way, too?"

" _Ja_ ," he wheezes, and muffles a cough in the crook of his arm as best he can. "And it was easier to get in than out."

"Yeah, well, that's the GeneCo way, isn't it? Way fuckin' easier to get in than out."

Once Caleb manages to catch his breath again, Beau leads them quietly along the edge of the graveyard and across the street. From there, they move carefully through a twisting maze of alleyways, sliding around dumpsters and, on two separate occasions, stepping over what Caleb hopes are just unconscious people. Beauregard doesn't give them a second glance, so he tries not to wonder too hard whether he's tripping over the leg of a corpse.

They're at the end of an alley that opens onto a large street when Beau throws her arm out to stop him. He's grateful for the break, as his lungs are aching, and he has as quiet a coughing fit as he can while Beau checks the time.

"Cool, we should have six minutes to just chill. You good?"

Caleb sinks to the ground, but nods as he continues to cough. Beau hovers over him for a moment, awkwardly, before she drops down into a crouch next to him. She rummages in her bag for a moment before pulling out a bottle of water and handing it to him.

"When you can breathe again, drink this. It's got some like, electrolytes or whatever. Since you probably haven't been getting those."

As Caleb coughs, he clutches the bottle of water to his chest like it's a priceless treasure. It takes nearly three minutes for him to get to a point where he can drink without choking, but the water feels amazing on his sore, dry throat.

"Thank you," he rasps, and Beau shrugs.

"Sure, whatever. You feeling better?"

" _Ja_ , much better. Ah… what are we waiting for, exactly?"

"Our ride. I got the routes of all the GeneCo sanitization trucks and the one that's coming in, uhh... two minutes goes straight where we want to go."

Caleb coughs again, then plants his feet and pushes back against the wall behind him. As he starts to get up, bracing himself against the wall, Beau pops back to her feet and offers her hand. He takes it and lets her pull him up with a grunt.

"So you're making a sick man ride around in a pile of corpses, is that right?"

"Oh, don't whine. We're just gonna hop on the back, it's not like we're gonna sit _on_ the bodies." Beau peers out around the corner, then ducks back into the alley. "I see the truck coming, are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" His stomach starts to churn nervously- surely she isn't going to say-

"Okay, I may have lied about there being no running. But it's easy to jump on, they go really slow!"

"Beauregard, I _can't-_ "

"Too late for that!" She grabs his hand and drags him out of the alleyway just as a garbage truck passes. His heart leaps into his throat as Beau pulls him forward then swings him wide, all but launching him at the back of the truck. By some miracle, he manages to grab onto one of the handles and pull himself onto the platform. He clings to the thin metal pole for dear life and tries to catch his breath in between coughs, heart still racing a hundred miles a minute. He looks over to see Beauregard holding onto the handle on the other side of the truck and gives her his best glare.

"Fuck… you…" He's wheezing, and speaking starts another coughing fit, but he feels more at peace. At least now when he asphyxiates, Beau will know his exact feelings on what just transpired.

She at least looks apologetic, which he appreciates. "I'm sorry, dude, I honestly kind of forgot that exertion was an issue for you? But I swung you extra hard so you wouldn't have to run as much!" She grimaces. "I _am_ sorry, though. This was the only way I could think of to get out there without having to walk or take public transportation and then still walk."

Caleb's mind is swimming with questions, like _what do we do when the truck stops and somebody sees us_ and _how long will we have to stand here clinging onto this_ and _oh_ Gott, _what have I gotten myself into?_ But he can't ask any of them until he can breathe, and he can't breathe until he stops coughing. So he just glares at Beauregard and tries to settle his racing heart as he takes breath after shaky breath of stinking air.

Nearly fifteen minutes pass before the truck lurches and the brakes begin to squeal. The truck comes to a stop in an area Caleb has never been to- it's a wealthier neighborhood, if the wrought-iron gates and clean streets are anything to go by. Caleb looks over to Beau, eyes wide, and she holds up a finger, telling him to wait. The cab door opens and shuts, and the small, loose bits of asphalt on the street crunch under the tread of a boot. 

Caleb hazards a glance to the front of the truck, and sees a GeneCo sanitation worker in full gear headed to an alley on the left side of the street, where the street lights don't quite reach. He looks back at Beau, heart rate starting to increase, but she shakes her head and mouths something that looks like _I got this_.

And despite the fear and uncertainty, Caleb believes her. So he holds tight to the back of the truck and shuts his eyes and tries to just keep breathing, even as the sound of footsteps grows closer. And closer. And-

"Hey, what the fuck? You two can't be back here, get- Beau?" The woman standing there is short and thick, with her respirator hanging around her neck and a cigarette tucked behind her ear. She has a five o'clock shadow and short brown hair, and the limp body of a young woman is draped over her shoulders in a fireman's carry. The body slides off her shoulders and hits the ground with a _thud_ as her eyes go wide.

"Hey Keg," Beau says, a little awkwardly. "What's up?"

Caleb watches in confusion as the woman's cheeks darken. She's _blushing_ and looking at Beau, and Beau is looking at her, and the silence stretches on until he can no longer hold back a cough. Both women turn to him, and the spell is broken.

"You guys aren't supposed to be on my truck," the woman called Keg says, but there's no force behind the words.

"We're not fucking with anything, I swear. We're just hitching a ride." Beau phrases it like a statement, but Caleb can hear the question in her voice: _If that's okay?_

Keg sighs, and squats down to grab the body she dropped. With a grunt, she lifts it bridal style and carries it the last few steps to the back of the truck. As she gets closer, Caleb can see that the dead woman's entire torso has been cut open with a Y-incision, like somebody opened her up for an autopsy before throwing her in an alleyway. As Keg hoists the body into the back of the truck, he sees that its chest cavity is empty, and his stomach turns.

Pulling the cigarette from behind her ear, Keg sighs. "Look. GeneCo official policy states that blah blah fuckin' blah, if you get seen by somebody I can't be held responsible, all that shit." She fishes a gloved hand into the sanitation suit's pocket, the friction of rubber-on-rubber causing a loud squeak. She grimaces, but pulls out a small item and, with a _click_ , lights the cigarette and takes a long drag. “Did you know this was my truck?”

“Uh. Yeah, kind of.” Beau scratches at her undercut awkwardly. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you again?”

Keg laughs flatly. “Not really. You can ride to wherever you’re going, but I’m not gonna help you if you get caught. Just… if this is another Cobalt Soul thing, I don’t want to get involved again. I don’t think Lorenzo knows I’m the one who gave you guys the info, but I’m not trying to put my ass on the line any more.”

“Yeah, no, I get it.” Beau bites her lip. “Thank you, Keg.”

“Sure, whatever.” She takes another drag before blowing a small cloud of smoke out from between pursed lips. “I gotta get going. Got a schedule to keep to.”

“Yeah.” 

There’s an awkward pause where the two women stare at each other before Keg turns her back and heads back to the driver’s cab and starts the truck back up. Caleb looks to Beau, an eyebrow raised quizzically, but she shakes her head. 

“Tell you later. It’s a long story.”

The truck makes two more stops, and the tension between Beau and Keg is palpable each time. They don’t speak, just carefully avoid looking at one another while Keg throws bodies into the back of her truck. The energy between them feels like that of two people who have broken up, and Caleb wonders if that isn’t exactly what happened. He doesn’t ask, though- Beau said she would tell him later, and he intends to hold her to that.

By the third stop, Caleb is exhausted and his entire body aches, the pain seeming to radiate from his chest all the way out to his fingers and toes. But he doesn't have much time to think about hurting before Beau is jumping down and gesturing for him to do the same. She has to help steady him once his feet are on the ground, and doesn't say anything when he puts a hand on her shoulder.

"It's not far. See? We're right at the wall."

He hasn't been this close to the wall since he was very young, but it's no less intimidating now than it was then. It's an enormous stone and steel structure that surrounds the perimeter of the city, and has shifted as Rexxentrum grows and expands and runs out of places to store its dead.

_Like a cell wall_ , his biology teacher had said, and staring at it now, he thinks that's accurate for both meanings of the word. With each year that passes, the city has felt more like a prison and less like a home. On the nights the loneliness is most pressing, the nights he spends coughing and aching and hating himself for feeling lonely when it's his fault Astrid and Wulf are somewhere else, alone in their own ways instead of in bed with him, he fantasizes about escaping. About the three of them running away from the city, from GeneCo, from the crushing debt of school and illness, from the gnawing ache of their parents' deaths. But it's only a fantasy- like most of the people in the city, they can't afford to leave, and he's not sure where they could even move _to_.

"Check it out, how weird is this? Cad says his family was here before the wall went up so they just kind of built around it." Beau's voice snaps Caleb out of his reverie, and he blinks at the gate in front of him, surprised. It's wrought iron set into the wall, with intricate curling designs that are barely visible behind the layers of thick moss and vines that cover the metal. It’s the densest and healthiest assortment of plants Caleb has seen growing free in the city, and the sight fills him with something that feels lighter than anything he’s felt in a while.

Beau presses a button hidden behind the leaves of a creeping ivy and clears her throat. After a brief pause, there's a crackle of static and through a speaker he hadn't noticed, a deep, distorted voice rumbles,

"Blooming Grove graveyard, Caduceus Clay speaking."

"Cad, it's me. I brought the guy I was telling you about. Also, you don't have to answer the door like you answer the phone."

"Mhm, you've said that before. Come on through when you're ready." There's a click as the gate unlocks, and Beau pulls it open. Caleb reaches out a hand to run his fingers over the moss as they go past, and is struck by how soft and _alive_ it feels. He can almost feel the energy humming against his fingertips even when he pulls his hand away to follow Beau through the dimly-lit tunnel through the wall.

The stone walls are covered in yet more moss and vegetation, and the entire space has a green glow to it. At first he thinks that plants have simply grown over the lights, but as he looks around, he sees that sections of the walls and ceiling seem to be glowing bright green on their own. He stops for a closer look, and sees that the light is coming from what look to be fungi.

"Pretty neat, huh?" It's the same voice from the speaker, but this time not distorted by static. Caleb looks to the end of the tunnel and sees a large, pink-haired firbolg making his way towards them and smiling softly. "It's called foxfire."

"I have never seen anything bioluminescent with my own eyes before. It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" He smiles pleasantly, but doesn't say anything else until Beau clears her throat. "Ah. Apologies. I'm Caduceus Clay."

"Caleb Widogast." He offers his hand, and Caduceus shakes it firmly. His hand all but envelops Caleb's own, and the sheer size of him would be intimidating if he didn't seem genuinely glad to have Caleb and Beau there.

"Mr. Caleb. Pleasure to meet you. Come in, won't you? I'm making tea." As he turns to lead them out of the tunnel, Beau looks to Caleb and shakes her head, grimacing. He squints at her in confusion, and she mouths something he can't make out. He shrugs, and she raises her arms in exasperation.

They follow Caduceus through to the other side of the wall, and immediately the air feels different- warmer, cleaner, almost humid. Grass and flowers and weeds grow from the earth, and they look _alive_. There are trees growing around and between grave markers and mushrooms sprouting from the ground and empty spaces. Caleb doesn’t remember the last time he saw empty spaces in a graveyard- or anywhere else, for that matter. Everything in the city is crowded and close, buildings squeezed into every possible space. Almost immediately, Caleb feels like he can breathe better here.

“Hey, c’mon,” Beau’s voice comes from behind him, and he turns to see her looking at him as Caduceus walks towards an old-looking stone building, seeming unaware that nobody is following him anymore. Caleb takes a deep breath and heads towards her.

The building is nicer inside than outside, but it doesn’t feel like any funeral home Caleb has ever been in. It feels more like a home, and as they follow Caduceus to what is clearly a kitchen, he realizes that it _is_ a home. The firbolg clearly lives here, and he finds himself wondering whether he performs his mortuary services here as well.

"How do you take your tea?" Caduceus is pouring hot water into two teacups from a kettle, and the way his pink hair hangs around his face reminds Caleb of the moss hanging from the trees outside.

"Just a little sugar, please. Actually- do you have honey?"

"I do. A friend just brought me some." He looks to Beauregard, and Caleb can't be sure, but he thinks he sees her blush before she crosses her arms and looks away. 

Caduceus prepares the two cups of tea, stirring honey into Caleb's and nothing into his own, while Beau pours herself a glass of water. Then they both follow Caduceus into what seems to be a dining room.

The table they sit at is a large, rectangular thing made of handsome, dark wood that's smooth with age and use. Caleb traces the grain of it with a finger, and breathes in the steam from the mug of tea in front of him. Beau is sat a seat away from him, and Caduceus is across the table from them both. He's still smiling as he takes a sip of tea and sighs.

"The Castala family has such a smooth, light flavor. I think they make a good nighttime tea, and a good tea for visitors. I hope the honey isn’t overpowering?”

“Erm, I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m sure you prepared it very well.” He takes another breath of steam before asking, “Is the Castala family a… a tea-brewing family? I didn’t know anyone did that around these parts.”

Caduceus chuckles. “In a way, yes. The tea is made from flowers that grow from the graves of the Castalas. As far as I know, they only grow here.”

“It’s dead people tea,” Beau says with a grimace. “You’re drinking dead people tea.”

“Aren’t we all?” Caduceus takes another sip pointedly, and Beau mumbles something about _I fuckin’ guess_ before the room falls silent for an uncomfortable stretch of time.

"So…." Beau is the one to break the silence, and Caduceus looks to her politely. She stares back at him for a moment, waiting for him to speak before she slouches and groans. "Are we gonna talk about Caleb's shitty lungs? Or just sit here and drink weird tea?"

"We can do both if you're ready to share your story, Mr. Caleb."

"Ah- _ja_ , erm… I have a pulmonary infection that has advanced to the point of needing a lung transplant. I, ah… I am not currently able to afford such a procedure, but Beauregard told me you may be able to assist me?"

Caduceus takes a drink of tea and nods. "I might. The Blooming Grove is a graveyard, and it acts as a final resting place for a number of people. But as much as this is a place of rest for the deceased, it's also a place where I try to encourage life to… well, bloom. I'm a, uh, mostly self-taught surgeon, and I offer my talents for free to people who need medical care. All I ask in return is that you do me a favor."

Caleb blinks, and finally takes a sip of his own tea so he has a moment to process everything. It has a faintly musky, earthy taste to it that's made slightly sweeter by the honey, and it feels wonderfully soothing on his sore throat.

"Ah… I don't mean to be rude, but you said you are a _self-taught_ surgeon? What does that mean? How long have you been doing this?"

"I'm not entirely sure how long I've been doing it, and I'd have to look up the exact number, but I know I just recently passed fifty operations. I'll be honest, I haven't transplanted both lungs before, I've just a single lung transplant."

"I see. Thank you. And again, I mean no offense, but what is your, ah… success rate?"

The firbolg's ears droop slightly, and a look of shame and regret flashes over his features. "I have lost five patients. Two on the operating table, the others… after."

He runs the numbers in his mind- that's a ten percent fatality rate, give or take. But it's _free_ , excepting the favor, which-

"You said you ask for payment in the form of a favor. What exactly is this favor?"

"I'm not sure yet. It won't be anything dangerous or big, and you can always say no." Caduceus takes another sip of tea and _watches_ him. "Earlier this season, I had somebody come out and help me make a meal for a grieving family. I've also called in a favor to help move a sapling from one side of the yard to the other."

Suddenly it makes sense. "So the favor is just something to keep people from feeling indebted to you, _ja_?"

The grin that splits Caduceus's face is a proud, pleased one. "Exactly. You're very observant, Mr. Caleb."

The exhaustion that had temporarily dissipated is starting to seep back into his veins, being pushed through his body with every beat of his heart. The thought that the tea might've been drugged crosses his mind, but the exhaustion feels familiar, the same tiredness that's been haunting him for months. The ache in his lungs is making itself known again, too, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to be back at home in bed, sandwiched comfortably between Astrid and Wulf.

But he can't have that, not yet, so he grits his teeth and pushes on. 

" _Danke_. Thank you. Ah. How soon would you be able to perform the surgery? I'm afraid I am running on borrowed time already."

Caduceus nods. "I don't have any human lungs immediately available to me, so I'd have to go through one of my friends. If I pushed a little, I could probably be ready to operate in just a few days, but that'll depend on whether her dad has lungs ready to go. It might be longer if he has to get some first."

"I can help speed things up there. If I need to." Beau sounds a little nervous, a little giddy, and Caleb’s stomach turns as he wonders exactly how she might _speed things up_. 

“I- this may be a stupid thing to say, but I don’t want anyone to be _murdered_ on my behalf-”

“What?” Beau looks at him, confused. “No. What? _No_ , god, I don’t mean I’m gonna kill somebody and take their lungs, dude, what the _fuck_. No! I just mean- I know his friend, is all. So I can maybe… you know. Grease the wheels?”

“Ah.” Caleb nods. Obviously. He’s not thinking clearly, and he’s not sure how much longer he can manage coherence before the fever completely wipes him out. “That… _ja_ , that makes more sense. I apologize, I'm just...” He turns back to Caduceus. "I will need to speak to my partners but I will let you know my decision as soon as possible. Right now, I am… I think I need to go home."

“Yeah. You look like shit even more than usual.” Beau checks her watch. “Cad, we actually _should_ start heading back. There’s another truck coming through in like, fifteen minutes and if we stay too much longer Caleb might pass out. And I don’t wanna have to carry him.”

“Hm? Oh, no, I can have Fjord take you both home. I think that would be the safer option, at this point."

"Where is Fjord, anyways?" Beau glances around the room, like whoever Fjord is might be standing there and she just didn't think to look for him. Watching her, Caleb can't help but look around himself, but there are only the three of them at the table.

Caduceus's eyes crinkle as he smiles fondly. "He's asleep right now, but I don't think he'll mind." He holds a hand up as Caleb opens his mouth to protest. "Please. If my husband knew I had sent you out on your own instead of waking him up, he'd be hurt. Besides, I'm sure he'd like to see you again, Beauregard."

Beau puts her hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, but I want it on the record that I did _not_ ask to wake him up."

"Noted." He finishes his tea before pushing his chair back and standing to his full height. "I'll be right back."

By the time Caduceus returns, Caleb's vision is hazy and everything sounds like it's being spoken from a room away. A half-orc man shakes his hand and introduces himself in a pleasant accent as Fjord, and Beau drapes his arm around her neck to help him stumble out to a small car. As she helps him into the back seat and squeezes in next to him, Caleb hopes he managed to thank Caduceus for his time, and for the tea.

He must fall asleep as soon as the car starts because the next thing he knows, Beauregard is nudging him not-so-gently awake, and they're in front of his apartment building. Groggily, he thanks Fjord, and brushes off Beau's offer to help him up to his place. The elevator ride up to his floor is hazy and dreamlike, and he doesn't remember opening the door or moving through the apartment, but he must have done both because he finds himself in bed, alone. 

He has the presence of mind to feel thankful that Astrid and Wulf aren't home yet, but that feeling fades into sadness quickly enough. He wants to bury his face against Wulf's chest while Astrid holds him from behind, and that is the last thought he has before he once again falls asleep.


	8. To Perfect Our Image

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the longest thing I've ever written, and it's all thanks to my beta reader, who continues to be the very best. I would not have made it this far without their assistance and encouragement. Thank you for all that you do.
> 
> This chapter includes a valiant attempt at starting to explain NOS and thus putting some actual genetics in Repo! The Genetic Opera. If you are a geneticist and you have thoughts, feel free to share them! I am a microbiologist and the human body is not my favored terrain.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: graphic descriptions of violence and murder, premeditated lying to a loved one, descriptions of respiratory illness, descriptions of surgery, eugenics-y ideas, and Trent Ikithon.

_Neuro-Overstimulation Syndrome (NOS) first emerged in 2028, following the development and usage of EiSoPer-ADDEX (ESPAX), an additive in fossil fuel combustion. While initially the cause of the syndrome was unknown, continuous testing revealed the correlation between the use of ESPAX and the occurrence of NOS. Early studies found that the burning of ESPAX released an airborne chemical that appeared to cause the activation of the previously unrecognized cryptic gene REST Inhibitor 14 (RESTIN-14) in large sections of the population. According to these studies, once the RESTIN-14 gene was activated, REST protein creation was halted, causing neurons to become increasingly overexcited with no way of slowing activity. The firing of overactive neurons seemed to result in the sending of conflicting messages through the central nervous system. The bizarre neural activity was thought to cause the immune system to react as it would to a pathogenic invader. However, as there was no actual invader to attack, immune cells ended up attacking the body, eventually initiating a cytokine storm._

_The severity of organ failure varied throughout the population, and was found to be based both on exposure levels to ESPAX as well as genetic factors. Later studies revealed the true cause of NOS to be slighty more comlicateed than initially believed, however. One study sgowed that dddddddddd;;;, ii,,,,,,,ddafakl,gaol,kv_

Eodwulf finds Astrid asleep in front of the library computer, head resting on crossed arms and drool soaking a dark spot into her sleeve. He almost wakes her up, but decides against it- he knows _exactly_ how tired she is, and how hard it’s been to sleep. They haven’t talked about it much, but he imagines she sees the same things he does when she closes her eyes. Faces twisted in agony before their eyes go empty, blood streaming from brand-new incisions, organs cupped in gloved hands, warm and wet and ready to be returned to the man who sold them. The part of him that's exhausted is just a little jealous that Astrid seems to be sleeping so soundly, no fear or distress on her features to indicate she might be having a nightmare, but the rest of him is relieved. She deserves a peaceful sleep.

He pulls out a chair to sit next to her, and quietly withdraws a textbook from his bag. It's worn from use over the years- it's a rental of an older edition, but his professor had said it would work just as well as a newer copy. He opens it to the latest section and begrudgingly begins to read about peptides. 

As with most textbooks, the writing is painfully dry, and he feels his eyelids growing heavy within minutes. He shakes himself awake, though, and bites the inside of his cheek in hopes that the pain will help. It does, briefly, but before long he's dozing off again.

Everything is dark and quiet, until it's not. There's the low _thunkthunkthunk_ of multiple spotlights being turned on near-simultaneously, and he's blinded by the brightness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, and as they do, a shape starts to come into focus before him. He's in the training room beneath GeneCo, and there's a person sat perfectly still in the chair, restrained and with a bag over their head. He blinks, trying to make out any details about them, and Trent is suddenly by his side, pressing a scalpel into his bare hand. 

Eodwulf realizes he isn't wearing the standard repo man garb, and is instead in a finely tailored suit like the ones Trent is always wearing. The scalpel in his hand burns with cold, and freezes against his skin as his fingers close around the handle. Trying to open his fist hurts as the metal pulls at his skin, so he can only grip it tighter.

"Get me my lungs back," Trent whispers, and the words settle over Eodwulf like a spell. His feet bring him to his victim before he can tell them to, and up close, he's dully surprised by how _thin_ this person is. Not that it matters. Less to cut through, really.

The knife slices through their skin smoothly and easily, and they don't so much as flinch. He can feel their heartbeat pulsing through the metal still stuck to his hand, and it's so strong it rattles his teeth. But he doesn't stop, and the blade glides so effortlessly through the skin and muscle and sinew that he has their chest open in no time. He watches the slow expansion and shrinking of the lungs as this person takes breath after deep, slow breath. It's mesmerizing until it's not, and the dull spell of Trent's order seeps back into his mind.

With his bare hands, he pries the person's ribcage open, and the snap of cracking bones should be more sickening than it is. The actual removal of the lungs is hazy- one minute he's holding the scalpel, the next the sleeves of his fancy suit are soaked to the elbows in blood and the scalpel has finally thawed enough to unstick from his hand only to be replaced with a pair of lungs cupped in both hands.

Trent's cold, wrinkled hands take the organ from him, and a soft voice in his ear says, _"Look at him."_

With a shaking, blood-soaked hand, Eodwulf reaches for the bottom of the hood covering the now-dead man's face. Fresh blood stains the off-white of the linen, spreading like ink in water. His heart beats in his throat as he lifts the fabric, and at the first curl of copper-red hair that falls free, he knows what he's done. But his hand doesn't stop, and as he meets the cold, glassy stare of lifeless blue eyes, he feels a hand on his shoulder and the soft, poison-sweet voice of Trent Ikithon says,

"Don’t disappoint me, Wulf. Wulf. Wulf!"

He jerks awake, flinching away from the hand shaking his shoulder and gasping when he sees Astrid instead of Trent. He exhales, trying to relax his tensed muscles and only marginally succeeding.

"It's okay," Astrid says softly. "You're in the Soltryce library. And I'm here."

Wulf nods, and takes a deep breath. He's shaking, he realizes, and presses his hands flat to the table in the hopes she won't see.

"Was I-"

"You were starting to scream. Was it… did you dream about him?"

She doesn't need to ask a question they both know the answer to, but she's trying to get him to talk about it. But the memory of Caleb, dead and still beneath his hands, makes his stomach churn. Usually it helps him to talk about it, but he can't.

"Not this one, Sassa. Maybe later, but I… I can't right now."

Astrid nods, and slowly, gently rests a hand on his forearm. His hands covers hers and squeezes.

It takes a few minutes for him to feel anywhere near back to normal, but once his head has cleared a bit, he nudges Astrid and nods to the computer.

"I didn't know that ‘studies suh-gowed ddddddd’, can't believe they don't teach that in schools."

"Shut up," she says, "at least I didn't drool all over my textbook."

"No, but your sleeve looks like you spilled a cup of water on it. Do you drool that much at home? I don't want you using my pillow anymore."

Astrid sticks out her tongue. "You're fine with my spit when my tongue is in your mouth."

"My mouth doesn't absorb moisture and I don't have to sleep on it."

"Coward."

Wulf rolls his eyes theatrically, and pointedly turns his attention to his textbook. Astrid hums triumphantly and squeezes his arm one more time before going back to her paper. The soft _clickclickclick_ of her typing is a soothing background noise, and Eodwulf slips into a focused headspace. They work like that for a length of time, but there’s the feeling of an unasked question building between them. Finally Astrid stops typing and turns to Wulf.

"So… did you get the call too? Saying the transplant is scheduled for Thursday?"

The question shakes him out of his reading headspace and settles heavy in his gut. " _Ja_ , during class. We were taking a quiz, too, so I'm sure I failed that."

Astrid bites her lip. "We're going to tell him tonight, right?"

"Mm. I think we have to, so he has a few days' warning." He closes his eyes. "Yes, we'll tell him. And we're going with the lotto thing?"

"I think that's the most believable. And we've practiced for some of the questions he might ask." She bites at her thumb nail, chewing nervously. “I’d like to go over them again, though, I think.”

“Sure. Should I start, or…?”

“ _Ja, bitte_.”

“Okay, uh…” He pitches his voice a little higher. “When did you enter the lottery? How much did you have to pay?"

"We entered it the day after you told us you needed new lungs. We didn't have to pay anything, _Schatz_ , it's supposed to be a charity thing. 'Give the less fortunate a chance at genetic improvement' and all that."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"We didn't want to get your hopes up. Winning was such a long shot…"

"What will we owe? What will this cost?"

"Nothing, _Liebling_. It's, ah-" Her voice catches. "It's completely taken care of."

Wulf nods, satisfied. Those are the most likely questions, and while they've practiced for others, the library isn't the place to recite those sorts of things. Better to ask incriminating questions where no one else can hear them.

"This is awful to say, but he- he should be too sick to ask too many questions." Astrid sounds nauseated just saying the words.

Wulf swallows and nods, lips pressed tight together. It's not _for the best_ that Caleb will be too out of it to see through their lie, there is no _best_ in this scenario, but- hopefully Astrid is right. Hopefully he'll buy it. Winning the organ lottery for those below the poverty line sounds too good to be true, too perfectly timed, but don't they _deserve_ something good? After everything they've been through, after everything _Caleb_ has been through, shouldn't he have something good happen to him?

"We still have half a loaf of that sourdough, so I'll make rice soup, and... we'll tell him tonight." 

Eodwulf doesn't let himself think about what will happen when Caleb is well enough to start pulling at the loose threads in their story. He doesn't let himself think about the possibility of Caleb dying on the operating table- or worse, before the surgery can be performed. It's only two days away, one and a half, really, but that's more than enough time for his lungs to finally and completely fail.

He doesn't let himself think about how very small and frail Caleb looked the night before, asleep in their bed when Astrid and Wulf finally came home. How he was still asleep when they left for class. How he could be dead and they wouldn't know until they got home, until it was far too late to do anything. 

He doesn't let himself think about losing Caleb because then everything, every awful, horrible thing they've done, will have been for nothing, and he and Astrid will be without the man they love. So he thinks about dinner, about kissing Caleb's sweaty forehead, about brushing loose strands of copper hair behind round ears, and he pushes on.

* * *

Frumpkin's fur is soft and smooth under Caleb's fingers as he rhythmically strokes the cat's back and thinks. Astrid and Wulf will both be home tonight, and he's going to tell them about Caduceus and his offer. He's going to tell them he wants to say yes.

Without the transplant, he will die. There's no question about that. If he takes Caduceus up on his offer, there's still a chance he'll die, but the chance of death at the hands of the firbolg is lower than the 100% chance of death if he does nothing. And despite everything, he isn't ready to die.

"What do you think they'll say, _Liebchen_? Do you think they'll say I'm crazy?" Frumpkin purrs in response, and Caleb laughs weakly, trying not to cough. "Probably. But what choice do I have? Let my own lungs drown me?"

Frumpkin purrs again, and Caleb sighs. “You are not much for conversation, you know that? You’re lucky that you are so cute, or else I might start charging you rent.”

Before he can admonish the cat any further, he hears the sound of the apartment door opening.

"We're home, _Schatz_!" Astrid's voice fills his heart with warmth even as his stomach flip-flops with nerves. They're early- or at least Wulf is, he usually has an afternoon class on Tuesday, and Caleb immediately wonders if something is wrong.

"You're back early," he says as casually as he can when Eodwulf appears in the doorway, already stripping out of his shirt.

"Hm? Class got canceled, apparently the professor got food poisoning. I'm cooking tonight to celebrate."

"You're cooking to celebrate food poisoning? That doesn't inspire confidence, _Bärchen_."

Wulf winks and grins in response, and Caleb has to smile back.

"How are you feeling today, _Liebling_? You were out cold when we left this morning."

_That's what happens when a sick man goes out late at night looking for a cure_ , he doesn't say. He hopes Wulf and Astrid won't be too upset that he snuck out last night, especially since having done so will (hopefully) save his life. Still, his stomach is a mess of nerves and worry.

"I'm feeling… a little better today. It doesn't hurt quite as much to breathe." A lie, but there's no point in worrying Eodwulf. Not yet.

"Good. I'm making rice soup for dinner, do you feel up to eating that?"

" _Ja_ , that sounds good." Caleb allows himself a moment to admire the way Wulf's muscles flex as he pulls on a soft, old sweater. As he lifts his leg to step into a pair of pants that he's had for years, though, Caleb sees that what he thought was a shadow is in fact a large bruise, dark purple-blue on his tan skin.

"What happened?" He asks softly, concern seeping into his tone. It's a _big_ bruise, stretching nearly half the length of his thigh.

"Hm? Oh, that." Wulf laughs awkwardly. "Don't tell Astrid, but I slipped while I was doing box jumps with a client. She told me I was going to eat shit doing that one of these days and when I did, I owed her twenty dollars."

"Sounds like it's time to pay up."

"Absolutely not, she won't think I'm cool if she knows I fell."

"Oh, _Schatz_ ," Caleb says softly, "she never thought you were cool."

Wulf puts a hand to his chest, feigning injury. "Ouch! Going right for the kill, huh? And here I thought you _loved_ me." 

"I do love you, but I have also known you for most of my life and will never think of you as 'cool'."

"I come to you weak and injured and this is the way I'm treated… You are a cruel man, Caleb Ermendrud-Widogast."

Caleb raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes, holding the expression for as long as he can before he has to cough. Wulf snorts, and Caleb can't help but laugh as well.

Wulf's lips are dry and soft on Caleb's forehead before he steps back. "I'm going to go get started on dinner. Don't snitch on me."

"I promise nothing."

Wulf sighs dramatically, and slumps his shoulders as he leaves the room, and for once, the ache in Caleb's chest is fondness rather than infection.

* * *

There's a strange tension over dinner that hangs over the three of them. Astrid understands why it's coming from her and Wulf- they're both nervous about having to tell such an enormous lie to Caleb, but she doesn't know why Caleb is tense, too, and it bothers her. Maybe he's just responding to their energy. Or maybe something new is wrong with him and he's trying to decide whether to tell them. Or-

"Eodwulf, this is very good. The bread is a nice addition."

"Thank you, I bought it myself."

Astrid snorts, and both men look at her.

" _Was_? It was kind of funny."

"Caleb, _Schatz_ , check the clock, I need to know the exact time that Astrid Bachmann finally admitted I'm funny."

"In a moment of _weakness-_ "

"Still counts!" Eodwulf is grinning, and it's so good to see a smile on his face. Astrid sticks her tongue out childishly, and Wulf smiles wider.

After that, the tension doesn't dissipate, but it does ease. It isn't until Astrid is clearing the table that Wulf clears his throat and the feeling of something imminent comes rushing back full-force.

"Caleb, _Liebling_ , we have some, uh…. We have some really, really good news."

Caleb stiffens, and his expression is wary as he looks to Wulf.

"Alright… What is it?"

Astrid's hands shake as she places the bowls in the sink. _Please, please let him believe this._

"You know that- the GeneCo surgery lottery for low-income people?"

"... _Ja?_ "

"We, ah. We entered it, and we didn't say anything earlier because we knew it was a long shot, but Astrid got the call today and- _Schatz_ , we got picked. _You_ got picked. Your lung transplant is going to be free. It's going to happen."

Astrid is impressed by how well Eodwulf delivers the news. She knows the joy and excitement are genuine, knows he's using that happiness to mask the falsehood, but even knowing that, she's surprised by the ease with which he lies.

For a moment, Caleb looks struck. "This isn't funny," he says softly.

"It's not a joke, Caleb. I wouldn't joke about this. Astrid can back me up; she got the call."

"It's true. They already have a date for the operation, this Friday. We aren't lying, Caleb." _Not entirely._ "You're going to _live_."

_If you survive the operation. If your body doesn't reject the lungs. If Eodwulf and I don't do something to piss Trent Ikithon off._

There's still a look of disbelief on Caleb's face, but it's starting to fall away. "I'm going to have surgery?"

" _Ja_. You're going to get new lungs, _Schatz_. You're going to be okay." Wulf is just a little teary-eyed, and it seems to be genuine. "Something good finally happened."

" _Gott_ ," Caleb's voice cracks, and it makes him cough. He's so weak like this, so frail and sickly and _small_. Astrid feels a surge of protectiveness, and while she hates herself for what she's doing, she can't bring herself to regret doing it.

Lying to him like this feels _wrong_ in a visceral way, like every word plants another seed of rot inside of her. But they can't tell him the real reason he's getting a new set of lungs, can't tell him the horrible things they've done and will continue to do for his survival. He would try to stop them, in a best-case scenario. Astrid tries not to imagine the worst-case scenarios, the ones where Caleb is disgusted and horrified and _afraid_ of them. The ones where he leaves. The ones where after everything, they still lose him.

"It's- you said it is on Friday?"

Astrid nods. "At ten in the morning. We'll both come with you-"

"No, don't miss _class_ , I've done my research, the operation could take up to twelve hours-"

"Caleb, do you _really_ think we aren't going to come?"

"...no. But I-"

_I don't want to inconvenience you_. Astrid has known him long enough to know those are the words he wants to say.

"We'll be there the whole time," Eodwulf says firmly. "And there's no use arguing."

"Thank you," Caleb says, and his blue eyes swim with tears. "Thank you, thank you."

The evening devolves quickly into the three of them curled up in bed, Astrid and Eodwulf on either side of Caleb like protective bookends as they finally, individually, let themselves have hope.

* * *

Not all creatures are made equal. This is a simple truth that is nevertheless foolishly refuted by so many with delusions of some sort of spiritual equality. But how can one believe that the simple internal mechanisms of an earthworm in any way rival the visceral, disgusting, _beautiful_ ways in which a humanoid body operates? The gift of sentience raises the inherent worth of a being, and proof can be found everywhere there is civilization. For a minnow cannot build and destroy empires any more than a cow can conceive of the complexities of modern medicine and the years of successes and failures preceding it. A dog cannot understand the mathematics required to run an economy, and a slug cannot comprehend the chemical formulae and reactions that make its existence possible.

Viscera is something beautiful, something that so many people fail to appreciate because they are prisoners to the fear of their own flesh and blood and the vulnerability therein. Bodies are not inherently perfect, but with the right guidance and application of technology, they can be _made_ perfect. The inside of a sentient living creature, though, is something near-sacred, and standing above the open chest cavity of Caleb Ermendrud-Widogast feels like standing before an altar to progress. 

Trent Ikithon watches intently as his best surgeons work diligently to replace the failing lungs of this young man. They're nearly four hours into the operation already, and the left side is nearly finished. There is a soft, rhythmic beeping covering the whirr of machinery as the heart-lung machine keeps him alive, keeps his blood flowing and oxygenated as he lies on the cold metal table, all but dead. The bright red blood that flows through clear tubes as it is circulated is beautiful, vibrant, and Trent smiles beneath the surgical mask. 

It has taken him the better part of his life, but he has created something worthwhile and, more importantly, he has _learned_. He has gained power and influence and knowledge, and has used each of these assets to gain more. GeneCo, his company, is _leading_ the surgical revolution. Nearly half a century ago he had optimized the process of growing healthy, usable organs _in vitro_ , and it had made him a millionaire. Decades ago he had saved an entire civilization. Now he controls an entire city and every wretched being living within its walls, and he is heralded as their savior. And they _need_ him, need his guidance and services and knowledge, because it was by his hand they were saved from the pandemic. It was by his hand their anatomy was allowed perfection. _Is_ allowed perfection. He is _needed, indispensable_ , and he will not allow himself to become otherwise.

Caleb Widogast's face is calm and still as he is made better from the inside, as he is _healed_. He doesn't know that his partners are not waiting for him outside of the operating room, doesn't know that their hands are likely just as bloody as those of the surgeons currently sewing new blood vessels into place. Trent had assigned them their first non-training repossession for today- there was no reason for them to sit and mope about for ten hours- and starting today, they have a debt to repay. 

The job should be easy enough- the target has failed to make any of the payments on his new small intestine for the last three months, and seems to have no intentions of even attempting to do so. He lives in the basement of an old, run-down apartment building in a poorer part of the city and has no job, no friends, no close family. He will not be missed. Trent understands that emotions play a role in the willingness to take a life, and experience has taught him that it is better to give newer repo men less… _ambiguous_ jobs. To assign them the dregs of society until they begin to understand the importance of the work. Until they can be trusted to obey.

_"Do we have to kill them every time?"_ Eodwulf had asked. _"What if they're just overdue on an eye, or a single kidney? Something they can live without?"_

It was not a new question, nor one he hadn't considered. Unfortunately, he discovered early on in this phase of his career that repossession survivors tend to pursue legal action. _Unnecessary force, overt brutality_ \- obnoxious little phrases spoken by small-minded people. There is always a cost to progress, but it is one that so few people are willing to pay.

He had explained this to Eodwulf, though not in as many words, and the boy had nodded and asked nothing further. He was a quick learner, he and his _partner_ both. It is so rare for him to receive truly qualified applicants, and these two had fallen neatly into his lap. Half of his repo men are nothing more than simple brutes, creatures driven by bloodlust and deep-seated psychological problems that were not addressed during childhood as they should have been. But they know enough to not cross him, to constrain their murderous tendencies to a professional context, and as long as they do not act like rabid dogs, they are not treated as such.

But these two newest acquisitions? With the right training and the right incentive, they could be worth their weight in gold. It has been so _long_ since he's had a truly promising new hire, and now he has _two_.

He wonders how they're faring. Whether they're finishing up or still working, whether they will perform as well in the field as they have in training. He certainly hopes so. He does not like to be disappointed.

Blood flows through clear plastic tubes and Caleb Widogast lies still and is granted a second chance at life. And Trent Ikithon stands above him, watching the methodical reconstruction of his pulmonary veins, and he knows he has not underestimated the value of having such a life under his thumb. And he smiles.


	9. Until Our Debts Are Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes for this chapter: first, sorry it took so long! This one was, for some reason, a real pain in the ass to write, but the next chapter is almost finished so it should be out fairly soon. Hopefully this will be worth the wait.
> 
> Second, a big huge thank you to my beta! Their advice helped put this chapter together into something coherent and readable, and I am, as always, deeply appreciative for the time and work they put in. 
> 
> Third, content warnings for this chapter: graphic descriptions of both being on and coming off of a ventilator, typical hospital stuff, very mild emeto, and blood and gore.
> 
> Fourth and finally, this is my incredibly self-indulgent AU so I'm not changing "Eodwulf" to "Eadwulf" because I don't want to.

Surgery _hurts_. Or at least, the aftermath of it hurts. Caleb is sure that the procedure itself would have been agonizing if he hadn't been unconscious, and for all the trouble modern anesthetics have caused the world, he is nonetheless grateful for their existence. 

It has been five days since the operation, five days of monitoring and probing and biopsies and x-rays and- he had spent three of those days unable to talk for the tube down his throat as a ventilator kept him breathing. Unable to speak or move or take an independent breath, stuck staring at the ceiling tiles during the hazy hours he was awake until he was deemed stable enough to be weaned. He doesn’t remember many details from his time on the ventilator, just flashes of muffled discussions held over his prone body, the presence of a dull ache in his chest, and the occasional blurred visages of his partners, their worry obvious even through the near-constant haze of painkillers.

It had taken nearly eight hours for him to come fully off of the ventilator, eight hours of struggling to breathe independently as the machine provided less and less support and forced the work back onto him. Eight hours of lowered painkiller doses to keep him awake and lucid enough to succeed. Astrid and Eodwulf had been there for part of it, at least, had held his hands and talked to him. Visiting hours in the ICU had been limited, and he'd only been able to see them for a few hours at a time each day. But Wulf had been there for the first two hours and Astrid had been there for the last two, and he knows that having them there helped. Wulf had held his hand and promised to make him all of his favorite dishes when he got home, had told him how much Frumpkin missed him, how much _he_ missed him, and as the ventilator placed more and more of the effort of breathing on his lungs, Wulf's words had made it just a little easier. 

By the time Astrid had arrived, he had pushed through the worst of the instinctual, animalistic fear that came with hours of struggling to breathe, but he had been exhausted from the hours of exertion and the crash that followed an adrenaline rush three hours and twelve minutes into the process. She had kissed his forehead and laced her fingers in-between his and stroked his hair as she softly sang an old folk song that her father used to sing to them. She went through as many songs as she could remember, then she told him how well he was doing, how soon he would be home, how much she and Wulf missed having him in their bed. When it was finally time for him to be extubated, the doctor and nurses had allowed Astrid to stay in the room, and she had watched nervously as they told him to take a deep breath and cough as the tube was removed. It had _hurt, **Gott**_ it had hurt, and the feeling of the tube being pulled from his throat as he forced himself to cough was unpleasant in a way he had never experienced. But his first few fully independent breaths felt like freedom and tasted like the antiseptic that hung in the hospital air, and Astrid had hugged him and combed her fingers through his hair and told him she loved him. His throat had been too raw to verbally answer her, but the way he clung to her until the nurses told her to leave was, he hoped, response enough.

The next two days had been a barrage of tests and monitoring and questions- _how do you feel, can you stand, can you speak, what is your pain level, do you know where you are?_ He had the pleasure of another, smaller tube down his throat so the doctors could perform a bronchoscopy, could make sure his body wasn’t rejecting his new lungs. He thought, dryly, that by the time he was home and fully recovered, his gag reflex would be nonexistent and Wulf would be _delighted_. He remembered one of the pamphlets about post-surgical care mentioning a recovery period before engaging in sexual activity, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a little excitement. It had been so long since he’d had the energy to do anything more than eat soup and fall asleep between his partners, and the thought of actually being able to be _intimate_ with them again felt like a flower blooming in his chest.

It has been five days since his surgery, and Caleb is doing better than anyone expected. His tests and x-rays have shown consistent improvement, and he’s been responding well to the cocktail of immunosuppressants and antibiotics the doctors have put him on. He still doesn’t remember much of what has happened, but he knows that his painkiller doses are being lowered, and he can feel his mind sharpening. He’s starting to almost feel like himself again.

It’s during a visit with Eodwulf that a doctor comes in to tell them that Caleb’s condition is finally stable enough for him to be moved from the ICU to the high-dependency ward. Caleb can feel himself grinning before he even thinks to do it, and Wulf squeezes his hand so hard it hurts. And then, in front of the doctor, in a room that smells like antiseptic and illness, Wulf kisses him, even though he hasn't brushed his teeth in days.

The transfer takes hours to complete, and Wulf is forced to leave before Caleb can be moved. He gives him another kiss on his chapped lips and tells him he’ll see Caleb soon, and walks as slowly out of the room as he can. Caleb is on his fifth slow recount of the ceiling tiles when a nurse comes in to tell him the new room is finally ready for him. None of his personal effects are here, so all it takes for him to be ready is the nurse helping him into a wheelchair and pushing him out of the ICU and into an elevator. As it starts to ascend, Caleb feels like he’s flying. He hasn't left this floor of the hospital since he had woken up, and the dim lights of the elevator might as well be the sun to a man who had been trapped underground.

Getting settled into the new room is a blur- it’s late at night, and he is exhausted. He fades in and out of consciousness as he is reconnected to the array of machines, as his IV is changed and his vitals are taken. By the time the nurse leaves, he had no trouble closing his eyes and falling into a deep, deep sleep.

He wakes up several hours later to see Astrid and Wulf sitting by his bed, watching him anxiously. His vision is blurry with sleep, and his words are slurred, but he does his best to assure them that he is alright and he loves them. Sleep takes him once more before he can process their responses, but he’s certain he hears Astrid say she loves him, too.

* * *

"Hey." Astrid shakes Wulf's shoulder, but he doesn't respond other than a low groan. So she repeats herself a little louder. " _Hey_. Get up, you're getting blood on the sheets."

He mumbles something that is probably supposed to be 'am not', and Astrid huffs.

"Up. Up! Why didn't you change clothes before passing out, you _Arschloch_?"

"I have no bones," Wulf groans, and sinks further into the mattress.

Astrid curses under her breath, but she can't be too angry with him- after all, she had fallen asleep with blood caked in her hair earlier in the week and stained the pillowcase. So she straddles Wulf's hips from where he's face-down on the bed and starts the slow process of stripping his bloodstained shirt off his uncooperative body. By the time she gets to his sleeves, he at least has the decency to lift his arms, making things marginally easier.

"You're doing laundry when you get up," she murmurs, and gets a sigh in response.

She wants to be mad, but she understands. It's been a miserable week. They had _promised_ Caleb, _swore_ to him they'd be there during his surgery, only to find out Trent had assigned them a job during that exact time. Astrid had asked- of course she had asked- if it could wait, but he had simply looked at her and asked if she was having reservations. And she knew she couldn't ask again. So instead of sitting beneath the fluorescent lights of the hospital lobby waiting to hear any news about the operation, they had instead been bathed in the neon glow of the city, taking a man's guts- and his life in the process.

The job hadn't taken long, and even with the both of them showering afterwards, they'd gotten to the hospital before the fourth hour of the surgery had begun. The wait had been agonizing- after three hours of waiting without a word on how things were going, Wulf had mumbled something about taking a hostage again to get some answers. Astrid had laughed hollowly because she wasn't sure what she would've done if she didn't. Scream, maybe, and it seemed like a bad idea to do that in a public waiting area.

Two more hours later, when Astrid had once again chewed her nails bloody and Wulf had nearly worn a groove in the shiny tile floor with his pacing, the doors had opened to reveal Trent Ikithon in a blood-spattered surgical gown. Astrid's heart had dropped into her stomach- he had _been_ there, had _participated-_

Had touched Caleb in a way that she and Wulf couldn't, and the look in his eyes told her he knew it. One more way to remind them that their lives were no longer their own. She had tasted bile on the back of her tongue, and almost missed that Trent had started to speak.

"You'll be relieved to know that the operation was a complete success. Caleb is being transferred to the ICU to begin his recovery. Normally you wouldn't be allowed to see him this soon, but I have put in a special request."

"Thank you," Wulf said, and Astrid wasn't sure whether the thickness in his voice was disguised disgust or simply exhaustion.

"You are welcome." His eyes were on Astrid as he answered, and the small curl of his lips felt like cold oil running down her spine. She had to steel herself before she asked,

"When can we see him?"

"Right now, if you'd like. He should be waking up soon."

Astrid doesn't remember the walk to Caleb's room. She remembers getting to her feet, following Ikithon through the swinging doors, and she remembers seeing Caleb, unconscious in a hospital bed, mouth open around a tube, silent in a room filled with the mechanical humming and beeping of the equipment keeping him alive. She remembers Wulf's hand in hers, squeezing. She remembers the weight of Ikithon's presence like lead in her mind.

Caleb had blinked awake slowly, eyes going wide with recognition as he saw Astrid and Wulf, then fear as he realized he couldn't speak for the tube down his throat. He brought a hand to his mouth, wincing as he moved, and touched where his mouth was held open.

"Hello, Caleb. Can you hear me?" Ikithon had waited for Caleb to nod before continuing on, "Good. You made it through the surgery wonderfully. You are connected to a ventilator that will help you breathe as your new lungs remember how they should work. I understand that this is uncomfortable, but it is necessary. Please do not attempt to remove anything you are connected to. You will be provided with a notepad and a writing utensil to communicate any questions or concerns you may have. Do you understand?"

Caleb nodded, slowly, and Astrid's heart ached at how fragile he looked. How he moved like everything hurt. A part of her wanted to see his chest, see where they had cut him open and put him back together, and even now she isn't sure whether the curiosity was medical or simply morbid.

They hadn't been allowed to stay long, and Trent had remained in the room with them, even as they stood on either side of Caleb's bed and told him how much they loved him, how they'd be _right here, we're not going **anywhere**_. And Caleb had glanced between them, paying attention as they spoke, though his movements had been slow with the anesthetic still working its way out of his system.

Time had passed quickly, and altogether too soon, Trent was telling them their time was, unfortunately, up. Leaving Caleb was one of the hardest things Astrid had ever done. Every part of her had ached to stay in that small, chemical-smelling room until Caleb could breathe on his own and speak to her and come home. 

God, she just wanted him home. Still wants him home, even though she knows that having him back in their apartment and lucid will make hiding her and Wulf's secret that much harder. She feels disgusted with herself that a part of her dreads him being alert again- he's just so _perceptive_ , and they'll have to be extra vigilant to make sure he doesn't start to suspect anything.

But hopefully, there won't be anything to suspect for very long. Ikithon has been working them hard, and at the rate they're going, surely they'll be able to pay off Caleb's surgery within a year, at the very most. She and Wulf can keep a secret for a year.

Wulf is snoring, still face-down on the mattress, and Astrid wishes she could collapse next to him, curl into his furnace-like warmth and maybe even _sleep_ for more than twenty minutes, but the semester is nearly over, and she has finals to study for. So she kisses the curve of his shoulder and climbs carefully out of their bed.

She falls asleep half an hour later, curled up on the couch with a textbook in her lap, and she dreams of a copper-haired boy alone in a sterile white room, gasping for breath as he calls for her.

* * *

When Caleb wakes up again, the chairs next to his bed are empty, but there's a book on his hospital tray table and on top of that-

His HoloWatch. He reaches for it, wincing at the pinch of the IV in his arm as he moves. The shape of it in his hand provides a sense of comfort he hasn't felt outside of seeing his partners since he woke up in the ICU. As he taps the screen to wake it up, however, that sense of comfort calcifies into a heavy mixture of guilt and anxiety. The words on the screen are stark and accusatory.

**87 MISSED CALLS FROM**

**BEAUREGARD LIONETT**

_Shit_.

With a grimace, he presses 'play' on her most recent message.

"Caleb, you fucking dickhead, I _know_ you're not dead because I check the obituaries every ten fucking minutes so you better have a good goddamn reason for disappearing for a week and _ignoring_ me, dude, this _sucks_. And Caduceus has the-"

Double shit. _Triple_ shit, even. He had been so rushed and scattered getting ready for his surprise surgery that he had completely forgotten to let Beau know what was happening. He can hear his heart beating faster in the beeping of the machine beside him, and he closes his eyes to try and calm down. It was an understandable mistake, probably. Hopefully. He glances towards the door of his room, but he's not due for any check-ins for another few hours and nobody outside seems interested in what he might be doing. So he finds Beau's contact information and braces himself as he calls her.

The seven seconds of _nothing_ as the call goes through seem to stretch out into an infinity, and Caleb's heart is in his throat before-

"Mother _fucker_ , Caleb, this better not be your goddamn ghost calling me because I said pretty clearly in message number eighty-whatever that I was gonna kick your ass so hard you _explode_ when you finally got the guts to call me back-"

"Beauregard. I got the transplant. I am in recovery."

"... what?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call you before, I- it slipped my mind, with everything else happening. I only had two days to get ready-"

"How the fuck did you get the transplant? Sorry, I'm really happy for you and I'm still pissed at you and I'm glad you're alive so there's a bunch of stuff going on for me right now, but… How?"

"They, ah... they entered the transplant lottery. The bi-monthly giveaway that GeneCo does? And apparently I won." It feels unbelievable, saying it out loud, and Beau's ensuing silence makes Caleb nervous. "I'm, ah. I'm not lying, Beauregard-"

"I don't think _you_ are. But that's… Caleb, that's awfully fucking convenient, isn't it? That you just _won_ a lifesaving surgery? Don't get me wrong, okay, I'm seriously glad that you got it, but… I dunno, I just don't want to see you get dragged into something messed up." 

" _Ja_ , well…" He thinks back to what Eodwulf said. _'Something good finally happened.'_ Beau's concern over his wellbeing is touching, but he's not sure why she's so suspicious, and he doesn't appreciate the insinuation that his partners are, for some reason, _lying_ about this. Even if it does still seem too good to be true. "I do not think anything particularly sinister is afoot here. And you know the saying about gift horses and their mouths."

She snorts. "You're such an old man."

There's a moment of silence before she continues, "Uh. Thanks for calling. I'm glad you're not, you know, dead. Do you know when you're getting out yet?"

"Mm, no, I just got out of the ICU, so I suppose it will depend on how well I do in the next few days. The last doctor I asked said I'd likely be here for another week or two."

"Shit. And when was the surgery?"

"Six days ago, now."

" _Shit_. You've been in the ICU for a _week_?"

"No, I was in the ICU for five and a half days. I don't know why you are surprised, you are the one who called my lungs 'unbelievably shitty'. Recovery will be… a process." That's an understatement- he, Astrid, and Wulf had been warned before surgery that his chances of survival were slim, and that his condition had been so advanced that the doctors couldn't give an accurate estimate of how much time the operation might buy him.

He had missed the ways Beau and Dairon had given him bad news, then. The GeneCo doctors had been professional and straight to the point, but it had been obvious they hadn't especially _cared_ about his reaction to the news. There had been no quiet _are you okay_ s from these doctors. They had given him information and they had left him alone in a cold white room. And he couldn't begrudge them for that, but the lack of interest in him had been jarring.

"Yeah." And there it is, the emotion in Beau's voice, because she _cares_ , even if she doesn't like to admit it. "Well… If you need anything…"

" _Ja_. Thank you."

"Sure. Keep me updated, okay? Don't make me fuckin' hunt you down."

"I will do my best. I really am sorry, Beauregard."

"I know, I- ah, fuck, Dairon's calling. Told them I was taking a shit and apparently they 'can hear me talking to Widogast, Beauregard'- yeah, I'm coming!" She groans. "I'll talk to you later, just hang in there. Bye."

"Goodbye." The call ends, and Caleb smiles. The warmth of speaking to a friend is interrupted, however, by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Caleb looks up to the doorway and hears his heart skip a beat on the monitor.

Trent Ikithon smiles at him, all teeth where there should be warmth. "Hello, Mr. Widogast. I'd like a moment of your time."

* * *

Eodwulf is elbow-deep in a woman's chest cavity when his HoloWatch starts to buzz. He curses beneath his breath, because the muffled song that plays is the one reserved for calls from Astrid and Caleb. Astrid is in class right now, and she knows where he is and what he's doing, so she wouldn't be calling him if it wasn't important. And if it's Caleb…

He pulls his arm free with a squelch and sees his boyfriend's name on the screen. His stomach turns, equal parts excitement and dread mixing into a viscous mess within him. He answers the call.

" _Hallo?_ "

" _Schatz?_ Hi." Caleb's voice, normally a source of comfort, sounds wrong as it echoes through the bloodstained room. "I've been trying to call Astrid, but I think she must be in class. I, ah… I am being released tomorrow. I get to come home."

"Oh." He feels lightheaded suddenly, and he's not sure he's breathing. "Oh, Caleb, _Liebling_ , that's wonderful news. Do you know what time…?"

"Any time after noon, apparently."

It feels deeply _wrong_ to be so happy when he's covered in a stranger's viscera, when the metallic scent of blood is so thick in the air that he can taste it. Quietly he thanks whatever god might be listening that the projection of Caleb’s face is simply that- an unseeing projection, not a camera or anything that might provide a visual of his surroundings. But despite the guilt sitting heavy in his chest, he can't stop the wave of giddiness that rolls through him- Caleb is coming _home_ , nearly three weeks after the operation. He starts to think about everything he needs to do- change the sheets, wash dishes, go to the grocery, _shit, they're out of milk-_

"Wulf? Are you still there?" 

"Mm? Ah, sorry _Schatz_ , I was thinking about what we need to do to get the apartment ready for you."

"All you have to do is be there, and it will be perfect." His voice is unbearably soft, even though the static of the call. 

"You say that, but I've been waking up soaked in sweat lately, and I think Astrid has been eating snacks in bed if the crumbs are anything to go by."

Caleb laughs a little, and doesn't cough. "I leave for a few weeks and you start trying to throw our girlfriend under the bus for your food crimes. It is a good thing I am coming home."

"What can I say? You're my moral compass. Without you around, I just can't be trusted." The statement feels painfully true as his eyes flit down to the body beneath him, and a wave of nausea rolls through his body. _This had to happen. If I hadn't done it, someone else would have. At least I made it quick for her._

"Well… you will, ah… you can be there tomorrow, right? I don't think they will discharge me if I'm on my own." The softness of Caleb's voice hurts like a fresh bruise, and Wulf hates himself for making Caleb feel like he has to _ask_.

"Of course I'll be there, _Schatz_. We both will. You said after noon? We'll be there at eleven."

"That's a little much." There's a smile in Caleb's voice, though, and it makes Wulf's heart swell.

"You're worth it. And I can't wait to have you back home."

"I can't wait to be home." Caleb pauses for a moment before continuing, "I'll see you tomorrow, _ja_?"

" _Ja_. I love you, _Liebling_."

"Love you, Wulf." 

The call ends, and Eodwulf is left standing in the absolute silence of the room, a smile on his face and blood on his hands. The smile fades as he looks down at the still body beneath him, but the blood remains.


	10. Lungs and Livers and Bladders and Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to my beta for looking over this and suggesting improvements, and for just being an all-around delight. You are my rock in the turbulent waters of this ridiculous AU.
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter: graphic descriptions of violence, emeto, and unhealthy drinking.
> 
> Also! I meant to post this several chapters ago, but [here](https://imgur.com/a/k7RTwJU) is the layout of Caleb, Astrid, and Eodwulf's apartment, just in case you were having trouble picturing it.

The man whose bladder payments are overdue is the first one of Astrid's targets that is ready for her, and she finds that she doesn't care for jobs that fight back at _all_.

He looks over his shoulder as he turns off the wet, neon-lit street and down the dark alleyway, which isn't unusual. He's holding a rusted tire iron when she lands in front of him, which _is_ unusual. And then he rushes at her, weapon clenched in desperate hands and raised to his shoulder, loaded up for a swing like he's going to try and knock her head off her shoulders. She has just a moment to take in the scene before hard steel is coming at her face fast, and it's only the training she'd received in that cold, bleak room beneath GeneCo that has her ducking under the strike and circling to the outside. Her heart is pounding as she pushes in, wrapping her arms around him, trapping his own arms against his body. 

The man curses, and there's a loud _clang_ as he drops his weapon. His far arm moves despite her hold on him, drawing back like he's reaching for something-

Astrid barely has time to shove off of him before there's a _click_ and a blade barely misses her mask. He slashes at her again and she jumps back, pulse racing as adrenaline courses through her. The third slash is a backhand that misses her by inches, but she's ready for the fourth. As the knife comes down, she blocks the strike before using the back of her arm to guide his hand down and to the other side. Astrid's palms are slick with sweat inside her gloves, but she seizes his wrist with both hands and holds on for dear life. 

The man gives a cry of anger, and the expression on his shadowy face is tinted with desperation for the first time since Astrid saw him. And the thought of impending victory gives her a sick little thrill- _that's right, be afraid-_

He tries to pull his arm free, and she pushes. She can tell he wasn't expecting it from the look on his face and the speed at which his back slams against the grimy brick wall. He exhales sharply, and  Astrid slams the metal-plated top of her helmet up into the bottom of his chin. There's a _crack_ as his head hits the wall ,  and a _thud_ as he drops the knife and it bounces off the top of her steel-toed boot.

Ears ringing from the impact of the headbutt , she lets go of his wrist, moving one hand to push his shoulder against the wall before driving the palm of her other hand under his chin as hard as she can. The sound his head makes this time is much wetter. His body doesn't quite go limp, but he weakens and slumps slightly, groaning in pain.

"Fucker," Astrid hisses under her breath before letting him drop to the ground.

Then she gets to work.

* * *

"So he _pissed_ himself? Before he was even dead?"

Astrid grimaces as Eodwulf dabs stinging antiseptic onto the back of her arm. "Yes, and it was _disgusting_. Have you ever tried to cut open a piss-covered man?"

"As a matter of fact…"

"Ugh. It's awful." She frowns as Wulf's large hands carefully bandage her wound. "I can't believe that _Arschloch_ cut me. I didn't even feel it."

"Must've been a hell of a blade to cut through your coat _and_ glove and still get you. At least it's not bad enough to need stitches."

" _Scheiße_." Astrid drops her head back against the bathroom wall. "I'm going to have to ask for new gear, aren't I?"

"Well, maybe not. You could probably sew it back up, _ja_? Maybe glue it?" He tucks the tail of the bandage beneath where it's wrapped around her arm, and taps the back of her hand with his index finger. "Wiggle your fingers. Is that too tight?"

She obeys and shakes her head. "No, it's fine."

Eodwulf's fingers lace in between hers, and her hand seems so small against his, though their calluses match up. A silence falls over them as they sit on the stained and cracked tile of the bathroom floor, knees bent and backs hunched uncomfortably. It doesn't feel like it's time to move yet, though. Not until Wulf pops his neck and says, "You're mad that you didn't get to hold a full bladder in your hand, aren't you?"

"I _really_ am," she huffs. "I wanted to know if it would slosh. Like a, ah… One of those toys you shake after you ask a question."

"What? Oh, with the little answers inside?" Wulf snorts. "I don't think a human bladder will tell you if Felix Meyer will be your husband."

"Shut up, I only liked him for like, a _week_ when I was eight."

"Mm, but it was a week of _passion_. Didn't you have a wedding dress picked out?"

Astrid lets go of his hand and gives him an unimpressed look. "I still remember the night you called me _in tears_ because Caleb told you he didn't like your shirt but your _Mutter_ was making you wear it anyways."

Eodwulf sticks out his tongue. "I was a sensitive young man, hopelessly in love." His hand finds her knee, and he rubs his thumb against it. "When is Caleb due back, again?"

"His appointment was at seven, and I think he said they're taking a biopsy and some x-rays, so we should have at least another hour."

Wulf's eyes flick to her bandage, then back to her face. He doesn't think he needs to say anything for Astrid to know the question he's not asking: _What are you going to tell him?_

"Would he believe I cut myself cooking?" By the tone of her voice, she already knows the answer.

"Maybe if you had any food to show for it." He purses his lips, thinking. "Unless you bled all over it?"

Astrid's head drops back against the wall once more. "Do you think there's some sort of repo man instructional manual where they give you a list of possible cover stories?"

He snorts at that. "You mean something helpful? _Nein_ , that would require him to give a shit about us. Plus, I get the feeling that most of his other… _employees_ don't really have anyone they have to make excuses to."

Her fingers curl around his as he continues to rub his thumb back and forth against her knee, and he easily allows her to hold his hand. Astrid's fingers are cold, like they always are, and Wulf closes his palm around them to warm them up. 

"I didn't feel anything when I killed him," she says quietly. "And this isn't the first time."

Wulf squeezes her hand. "It doesn't feel good," he says. "But it feels better than the guilt."

"Does it?"

"...No."

They sit in silence, after that, until Astrid's stomach growls. Eodwulf helps pull her to her feet, and the two of them make their way to the kitchen. Breakfast is a quiet affair, but Wulf keeps his foot resting against hers, a constant point of contact to ground both of them. He has nothing to offer in terms of advice- killing someone should elicit _some_ type of emotional response, but he's three repossessions into feeling nothing more than a sense of relief as blood drips from his hands, and he doesn't know how to help _himself_ cope with this, much less how to help Astrid.

By the time the front door opens with a _click_ and Caleb walks in, the mood has lightened somewhat, and Astrid's smile at seeing him looks genuine. She's put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the bandage, at least for now. Wulf waves a soapy hand in greeting from where he's washing dishes, and Caleb grins and waves back.

"How did the appointment go, _Schatz_?" Astrid asks.

"It went well. The doctors said that my recovery is going as expected and that they want to keep me on the same medications for now." His voice is a little raspy, but it always is after a biopsy. "They said if I keep improving like this, I should be able to re-enroll for next fall."

"Oh, Caleb, that's amazing! It would be so nice to have you back in school with us." Astrid walks over to him and wraps him up in a hug.

" _Gott_ , yes, _please_. You don't know how hard it is trying to study with Astrid. It's like she can't absorb information until it's three in the morning." He feels bad almost as soon as he says it- she hasn't had a chance to study during a normal time in months. Even before they started working for GeneCo, her job at the restaurant had kept her out late. Wulf knows that she stays up late to study out of necessity, not preference, and he grimaces. He'll have to apologize to her later.

Astrid pulls away from Caleb to cross her arms. " _Ja_ , well, at least I don't try to cheat off of you for the _entirely wrong subject_."

"For fuck's sake, that was once in _grade school-_ "

"And yet I'm still making fun of you for it, aren't I?"

"I'm sorry, _Liebling_ , but you _did_ copy her answers for a vocabulary assignment and turn that in for your math homework." Caleb has stepped up behind Wulf to wrap his thin arms around Wulf's chest, and despite himself, he sags back into the embrace.

"You two are awful, bullying a man who does nothing but love you."

" _Ja_ , that's true." Caleb presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, and Wulf's heart aches. "But you're so easy to bully."

Wulf grumbles in response, and goes back to washing plates. Caleb holds him for several moments longer before pulling away, the ghost of his warmth lingering for far too short a time.

* * *

If he had been asked six months ago what he thought hope would taste like, Caleb would have said it would taste sweet- stereotypical, but not something he'd ever felt the need to give much thought to. Now, he knows that hope tastes bitter and chalky on the back of his tongue where he can't swallow his pills quite fast enough before they start to dissolve. It often makes him gag but he knows how much the medication costs, so he's largely managed to choke the vomit back down, only throwing up once in the kitchen sink when the taste was too strong to stomach.

He's been out of the hospital for two weeks and in that time has had two follow-up appointments during which he's been poked and prodded and biopsied, asked questions, and prescribed new medications as the GeneCo doctors try to find the best combination of immunosuppressants to keep him alive. Caleb is still being treated by Trent's personal staff as part of the lottery- he had asked if he could return to the clinic, to be under the care of Beauregard and Dairon again, but the answer had been no. It makes sense- the doctors he's seeing now are transplant specialists with impressive credentials, and they almost certainly know more about post-transplant care than anyone working in a tiny, under-funded clinic, but still… he misses his friend. 

It's not like he doesn't hear from Beauregard, though. She calls him every few days to make sure he's still alive and, he thinks, because she misses him too. She makes sure he's doing his physical therapy exercises, and even joins him on his daily walks every so often, usually when Astrid and Wulf aren't available. He's tried to tell them all that he's able to walk on his own, that he hasn't collapsed in the street once in the two weeks he's been home, but still, they insist on someone being with him. 

He mostly feels bad about taking up valuable time his partners could be using for studying- or for sleeping. Astrid's new job as a receptionist at an emergency clinic keeps her out for most of the night several days a week, and it seems like Wulf has started booking clients well into the night too. Caleb wishes they didn't have to work so hard, but he knows that even having won the lottery for his transplant, they still owe money for his previous medical care, and that's on top of rent, food, and school. As soon as he's well enough, he'll need to find a job so that they can finally take a bit of a break.

When he tells this to Beauregard on one of their walks, she frowns.

"Don't rush into it. I know you guys have money issues, but if you start working before you're ready, literally all of this will be for fucking nothing."

"I know, but… I feel like I am dragging them down. Or at least holding them back. And they've already given up so much for me."

"Yeah, well, they love you. And you'd do the same for them. Right?"

" _Ja_. I would." _Without question, without complaint_. "I will not rush into anything. But it would be nice if I could recover a little faster."

"Dude, you're already doing _way better_ than anybody thought you would. Like, no offense but I'm kind of surprised you didn't die on the operating table." She holds up her hands defensively at the look he gives her. "You were really fucking sick! I'm _glad_ you didn't die, obviously, but _man_.

"All I'm saying is, take it easy. Don't push your luck. You have the rest of your life to work yourself to death like everybody else."

Caleb sighs, but she's right and he knows it. A glance at his HoloWatch shows that the walk is halfway over and it's time to turn around. The walks are getting easier, even as they start to get longer. He doesn't have to take as many breaks, and he can actually walk and talk at the same time without feeling like he's dying.

As they turn to head back, Beau clears her throat awkwardly. "Not to keep harping on this, but… I did some digging and the last time anybody won GeneCo's creepy lottery was like, six months ago."

Caleb's heart sinks. He knows that she means well, that she's worried he's being dragged into some sort of conspiracy. That his partners have done something desperate or dangerous to keep him alive. That they've lied to him, either for his sake or theirs. He hates when Beauregard brings this up, both because of what she’s implying, and because he's afraid that she might be right.

Something is different with Astrid and Eodwulf. He didn't want to admit it, at first- and really, he still doesn't- but he can't deny that something has changed between the three of them. He had worried that it was resentment, or worse, pity, but he doesn't think that's it. It feels like they're keeping something from him, and he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know if he _wants_ to know what it is. Because he knows what lengths he would go to to keep them safe, and he's fairly certain they would make similar sacrifices.

The evidence is there. They stay out late, sometimes on nights they weren’t scheduled to work. They avoid questions about their jobs, only giving vague answers about things they used to talk extensively about. They're always exhausted, _fatigued_. And then there’s the matter of how they always seem to be hurt. Bruises and cuts, tender areas and muscle aches… they think they’re hiding their pain, but Caleb notices the bandages and the wincing. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he doesn’t know how to broach the subject, much less what he’ll do if he’s _right_.

The thought of the two people he loves most in the world supplementing their income by selling their blood, their plasma, their _organs-_ all because of _him-_

“It’s a lottery, Beauregard. Long dry spells aren’t unheard of.” He doesn’t want to think about it. It’s selfish, he knows, but if he just doesn’t think about it, maybe it won’t be real.

“Not this long. People actually thought GeneCo canceled it and just never told anybody. Which would be way more on-brand for them-”

“They probably wanted some good publicity. The news hasn’t been so kind to them lately, and what better way to show the people you are still on their side than to give a poor, dying orphan a new set of lungs?”

Beau sighs loudly. “I just don’t want to see you getting into something fucked up.” She drops her voice and whispers, “I think they’re maybe grave robbing. You said they stay out late and do a lot more laundry than they used to. That would fit, wouldn’t it?”

“Beauregard, I do not think Astrid and Wulf are grave robbing.” _I think they’re doing something much worse_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. “Could we please stop talking about this?”

“Fine. But only because I can see your apartment from here and I don’t want anyone to overhear.” She looks at Caleb and her expression softens. “I’m not trying to stress you out. I’m just worried. If they get in trouble…”

“ _Ja_ , I know. If they get in trouble, it’s my ass too. Believe me, I am well aware.” He really, really doesn’t want to be thinking about this. 

“Just be careful. Okay?”

“I will be as careful as I always am.”

“That’s not reassuring, I want you to know.”

“I know.” He smiles at her tiredly as they reach the door to the apartment complex. “Thank you for walking with me, Beau. Are you available next Wednesday?”

“Uh, I think so. I’ll check my schedule and let you know.” She scuffs her shoe on the pavement, not looking at Caleb. “You need help getting upstairs?”

“I don’t think so, but thank you.”

“Cool. Well.” She hovers for a moment. “See you later. Take care of yourself.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

On the elevator ride up to his floor, Caleb carefully does not think about looking for surgical scars the next time his partners come out of the shower. 

* * *

"How bad was it?"

Wulf drains his glass, and shrugs. His hand is shaking, and his face is pale. He holds the cup out to Astrid, and she pauses a moment, but eventually refills it. The blood smeared on his cheek is still wet, but Astrid thinks if she were to reach to wipe it off, he would flinch away. So she lets it dry as she watches him drink the cheapest whiskey he could buy. The label is unreadable, given the blood soaking into the paper, but the quality is clearly shit. Still, Eodwulf doesn't so much as grimace as he empties the second glass he's had since Astrid found him sitting at the kitchen table. 

It's somewhere between two and three in the morning, and Caleb is asleep in their bed as Wulf takes the bottle and pours a third glass for himself. He curses when his shaking hands cause some of the amber liquid to splash onto the table, and Astrid silently gets up to retrieve a towel. She wipes up the mess, then puts the cap back on the bottle. Wulf watches her with hazy eyes, but says nothing. She can tell by the way his eyelids are drooping that the alcohol is starting to take effect. He looks exhausted, but the color is at least starting to come back to his cheeks. He finishes the whiskey in his cup and glances at the bottle by Astrid’s arm, but doesn’t ask for more. 

“What happened?” Astrid’s voice is low, like she’s trying to preserve the quiet of the apartment. _What did you do_ , she thinks, and hates herself for it.

“A kid saw me. _His_ kid, the guy’s-” Wulf draws in a deep breath. “I guess it was their backyard I ended up killing him in and when I looked up, there was a- a little boy in the window-”

His voice catches, and he looks again to the bottle, this time reaching for it. Astrid doesn’t stop him from taking it.

“He saw me pull his _Vater’s_ kidneys out. I don’t know if he screamed.” Wulf doesn’t bother with the glass, just unscrews the cap and takes a swig straight from the bottle. His voice rasps as he adds, “I don’t know if he was even crying. If he even knew what was happening.

“I hate this. _Hate_ this. I don't  want to do it anymore.”

“We have to,” Astrid says softly. “We don’t have a choice. It’s the only way to pay him back.”

“I  never wanted to kill people.” His voice is unbearably soft, and he sounds moments from tears. “I don't want to bear this burden. I hate it.” He brings the bottle to his lips once more and takes another long drink. 

“We have to,” she repeats, because she doesn’t know what else to say. What else can she _say?_

When he sets the bottle back down, Astrid can tell that there’s less than half left. The look he gives her is one of pure misery.

“Can’t sleep in there with him tonight. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Wulf…”

His words are starting to slur, and she can tell that he’s having to focus his eyes on her. “This was a bad idea, Sassa… don’ lemme do it again.” With that, he heaves himself to his feet and stumbles the short distance to the couch. He’s asleep almost as soon as his body is horizontal, and Astrid is left alone in the silence. 

She takes a shot of whiskey from the bottle, coughing at the burn and grimacing at the taste, but taking a second shot anyways before putting the cap back on and tucking the bottle away in the back of a cabinet. Part of her thinks that she should just pour it out, get rid of it, but- she doesn’t know how much money it cost, and it feels wasteful to just get rid of it. So she tucks it carefully behind a bag of flour and closes the cabinet quietly. Her throat burns as she pads softly to their bedroom, grabbing a spare blanket and the small trash bin before heading back to where Eodwulf has started to snore softly. 

Astrid puts the trash bin on the floor by his head, then drapes the blanket over him, tucking in the corners where she can. There’s still blood on his face, so she runs the towel she’d used to clean up the whiskey under the tap for a moment, then wipes the smear of red from his jaw. He doesn’t so much as twitch  beneath her ministrations- this is definitely the deepest he's slept in a long time . Astrid watches him sleep for several minutes,  torn between envy, concern, and relief, before turning off the kitchen light and walking slowly back to their bedroom. Caleb doesn’t stir as she climbs gingerly back into bed and settles beneath the blankets. She’s tired. She wants to sleep. She _needs_ to sleep. But she can’t stop thinking about the half-bottle of whiskey and the way her chest is warm from the swigs she took. A few more and it might knock her out like Wulf…

But no, he’s going to be sick when he wakes up, and she doesn’t have time for that. So she settles deeper into the pile of blankets in the bed and closes her eyes, trying to clear her head and focus on her breathing. It isn’t until the curtains start to glow pink with the sunrise that she finally falls unconscious, her mind and body giving in to exhaustion after holding out for so long. She doesn’t dream, blessedly- the sleep that finds her is deep and peaceful, and as Eodwulf wakes up only to vomit into the trash can, Astrid starts to snore.


	11. For Tonight's Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternate title for this chapter is "Time For Cameos From My Friend's OCs Because Yes This Fic _Can_ Get More Self-Indulgent". Lena Waelda (the white-haired woman) belongs to Vanni, and Kasimir Bogusevich belongs to Mel (trans_droid on Twitter).
> 
> Once again I would like to thank my beta profusely for everything they do and all of the suggestions they make. Both this fic and my life are greatly improved by their help. 
> 
> Specific content warnings for this chapter include: Trent being controlling and creepy in terms of the personal information he knows about the characters, and jokes about and allusions to sex. 
> 
> A quick note about Caleb’s outfit and the world- Caleb is a trans man who has been on testosterone but has not had top or bottom surgery and does not experience a large amount of chest dysphoria. In the world of this AU, trans people are not a target for hatred or disgust on the basis of their transness (because fuck it, I say so). Having his chest on display is not intended as transphobic humiliation by Ikithon, and Caleb does not experience dysphoria over the clothing choice, nor does it put him in danger to wear it in public. The purpose of the shirt is to showcase GeneCo’s work (i.e. the scar from his surgery), and any discomfort he experiences is due to being made a human showcase, not because of any gender-related reasons.

"Thank you for coming in. I know you are both _very_ busy, so I will try not to take up too much of your time." The words would sound pacifying and untrue coming from anyone else, but from Trent Ikithon, they sound almost like a threat. He steeples his fingers together, elbows propped up on his polished mahogany desk as he gazes at Astrid and Eodwulf. 

"This is, as I'm sure you're aware, a performance review. And I would like to start off by saying that the two of you are doing a _tremendous_ job. The number of repossessions you've performed combined with the usability of the reclaimed organs puts you at my two best-performing new recruits. Keep this up, and you may lose the 'new' in that title."

He smiles, watching their faces intently, but Astrid is careful to avoid any facial expressions.

"There has been an unfortunate trend recently of organs getting damaged either during repossession or while in transit, but you especially, Astrid, have been _methodical_ in your work. I think with continued training, you will make a fine surgeon."

The rush of pride slightly outweighs the feeling of her skin crawling at the praise, but Astrid doesn't have the spare emotional energy to be ashamed. At least she's not in danger of being fired. Probably.

"And Eodwulf. Very few repo men have shown the sort of mettle that you have demonstrated. I know this has been difficult for you, but your perseverance is remarkable, and your performance has left no room for complaint.

"Overall, I am very pleased with both of you. I hope you will continue to impress me." Ikithon un-steeples his fingers to reach for a pen on his desk. "Needless to say, you have received high marks for this review. Thank you for coming in, you are free to go."

Astrid feels her breath catch in her throat. She should leave. _They_ should leave. But they have a question that needs to be asked, and it burns on the tip of her tongue. They had discussed earlier whether or not to ask, but hadn't reached a conclusion. There's no time to reach a mutual decision now, though, and the longer they sit here, the worse the tension becomes. It feels like the air in the room has thickened and Astrid's lungs aren't strong enough to draw it in and push it out. She waits for a moment to give Wulf a chance to speak, hoping he will, but when he doesn't say anything, she inhales as deeply as she can and steels herself.

"Sir… do you have an estimate for how many jobs we will need to do to pay back Caleb's surgery?"

Ikithon raises an eyebrow and looks at her, pen still in hand. "I do."

Astrid swallows nervously, her mouth dry. "Is there- could we have some indication of our progress?"

"I did offer to pay you directly for your work, Ms. Bachmann, but you and your partner opted to have your full paychecks put towards repayment of your debt. Am I to assume that you haven't been receiving your paystubs?"

Her eyes flick to Wulf for just a moment- _paystubs?-_ before centering back on Ikithon. "N-no sir…"

"Well. I will have a talk with my finance department to ensure that you start to receive those. My apologies for the oversight." 

Displeasure is clear on his face, and Astrid can't help but feel like it's somehow directed toward her. A bead of sweat crawls slowly down the back of her neck, and she has to repress a shiver.

"I did give you a prospective repayment timeline, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you are only two months into that timeline?"

Astrid's heart is pounding in her ears. "Yes, sir."

Ikithon nods, and lets a heavy silence settle over the room for several moments before he speaks. "Are you unhappy with some aspect of the mutual agreement we came to, Ms. Bachmann?"

If she wasn't panicking and directly in front of the most powerful man in the city, Astrid might have laughed. _I'm unhappy with every single aspect of it except for the fact that Wulf and I aren't dead in a ditch somewhere_. But she's not stupid. She knows that she's already made a mistake, and she's not about to make a worse one.

As she's opening her mouth to say _No_ , Wulf finally speaks up, and she doesn't know if the feeling in her chest is relief or dread.

"I think we just want to make sure we're on track to repay you for your generosity, sir, since we just received such positive performance reviews." 

Ikithon's grey-blue eyes slide from Astrid's face to Wulf's and he presses his lips together into a thin line. Without his gaze boring into her, Astrid can see just how unwell the man in front of her looks. His sclera are yellowed where they should be white, and even in the dim light of the room, she can tell that his skin is similarly tinted and marked with liver spots. He looks _old_. 

"You are on track. I will let you know if that changes." His tone is clipped, and the irritation radiating from him is nearly tangible. "Now, unless you have any _further_ questions..."

"No, sir." Astrid just barely manages to avoid cutting him off with how quickly she responds. Every cell in her body is vibrating with the need to _get out, get out, get out-_

"You will be contacted with your next jobs later this week. Dismissed." With that, Ikithon starts to write something on the papers in front of him on the desk. The scratching of his pen follows them out of the room and past the woman they once held hostage, who doesn't so much as give them a glance.

As soon as they're out on the street, Astrid grasps at Wulf's sleeve.

"I think I fucked up," she whispers, staring straight ahead.

Wulf shakes his arm gently until she lets go so he can take her hand in his and squeeze. "It's okay. We… we need to know. We _should_ be allowed to know."

"It feels like he doesn't want us to. Like he wants us in the dark."

" _Ja_ , well… Maybe it's all just a misunderstanding. He said we'll start getting paystubs. We can ask for the ones for the jobs we've already done and keep track that way. We _know_ how much we owe, he at least told us that."

Astrid's hand tightens around Wulf's as they walk through the city, a biting cold wind blowing at their backs and pushing them forward. The buildings tower above them on either side of the street, monuments to the population that Rexxentrum barely has room to house. The city has been expanding since before their parents brought them here, before they were born, and it only continues to spread across the land like a cancerous growth, strangling the life from what was there before in order to sustain itself.

Rosohna had the right idea, Astrid thinks, building skyscrapers to most efficiently use the space they had, the city reaching infinitely up instead of out. There are religious reasons for the design as well, she knows, but for all the citizens of Rexxentrum complain about the 'eyesore' of the city that is slowly being swallowed by their relentless expansion, she's always found the buildings to be beautiful in an eerie way. 

They don't do organ repossessions there either, at least according to the stories she's heard. No place is perfect, but it must be nice to live somewhere where there isn't a fleet of garbage trucks repurposed for corpse retrieval and disposal patrolling the city twenty-four hours a day. Where she wouldn't have to be responsible for some of those bodies.

Wulf squeezes her hand like he can tell where her thoughts are headed, and she forces herself back into the present. They're nearly home, and she needs to compose herself before she has to face Caleb. At least she can blame her shaking on the cold.

* * *

It is exactly two in the afternoon when Caleb's physical therapy exercises are interrupted by a knock on the apartment door. He frowns- there's no one who should be knocking on the door right now Astrid and Eodwulf are both taking their finals, and Beau's shift today doesn't end until much later. The knock comes again, and Frumpkin peers down at Caleb from his perch on the couch, as if to say ' _make that stop_ '. With a huff, Caleb pushes himself up from where he'd been lying on the floor and takes a moment to catch his breath before heading to the door. He peers through the peephole and can just make out through the grimy glass an unfamiliar figure that seems to be carrying several large boxes. 

He doesn't think that Astrid or Wulf would've ordered anything so important it has to be hand-delivered by a courier, and the overly-cautious part of him worries that this is some kind of trick to get him to open the door so this person can rob him. As he watches, they stand perfectly still, waiting with an eerie patience. A minute and a half passes before they carefully balance the boxes on one arm and reach out to knock once more on the door.

Caleb waits thirty seconds more before curiosity outweighs caution, and he opens the door. His heart leaps into his throat as he takes in the long white hair and striking posture, but- no, this is a woman, and much younger than Trent Ikithon. She's dressed in a pristine white suit, and her eyes have an almost golden sheen to them.

"Hello, Mr. Widogast. I am here on behalf of Trent Ikithon. He would like to extend an invitation to this weekend's opera to you and your partners. He has taken the liberty of providing the three of you with outfits to wear and requests that you alert him as soon as possible if there are any problems with the clothing so that he can have it tailored."

With that, the woman hands the stack of boxes to Caleb. The boxes are heavier than he expected, given the ease with which she was holding them, and it takes him a moment to balance them.

"Ah… thank you?"

She nods, but her face remains impassive. "Your individual tickets are in the boxes. The opera begins at seven p.m. but you are encouraged to arrive at six."

The tone of her voice makes it clear that they are _expected_ to arrive at six more than _encouraged_.

"We will be there at six," Caleb says, not wanting to risk a misunderstanding. 

"Wonderful. Mr. Ikithon looks forward to seeing you." The woman nods politely, then turns and heads towards the stairs, leaving Caleb standing in the doorway with three boxes and a creeping feeling of dread.

Behind him, Frumpkin meows, and Caleb shakes himself out of his stupor enough to close the door and lock it. The boxes seem to get heavier the longer he holds them, and by the time he drops them onto the half-made bed, his arms ache like he's been lifting weights. Each box is tied shut with a black silk ribbon with a tag attached. The one with Caleb's name written in an elegant scrawl is on top, and he sets it down separate from the other two. He runs his fingers over the silk, equal parts terrified and curious to see what's inside.

Curiosity wins out, as it always does, and he carefully unties the ribbon with trembling fingers. He lifts the lid slowly, and finds a layer of tissue paper inside. The crinkling is impossibly loud in the silence of the bedroom as he pulls the paper back to reveal an envelope lying atop his gift. Something in him tells him to open the envelope first, so he does. Inside is a ticket to the opera and a handwritten note.

_Mr. Widogast-Ermendrud,_

_ I am pleased to hear that your recovery is exceeding expectations. It warms my heart to know that GeneCo has been able to help you through this difficult period in your life. I imagine most of your time and energy has gone towards recovery, and I would like to offer you a small distraction in the form of an evening out with your partners. You have each been provided with a ticket to this weekend's opera, as well as an outfit to wear. Consider this a gift; I expect nothing in return beyond your attendance and company.  _

_ I do hope to see you there. Contact me if there are any problems with the clothing I have provided. _

_ Best, _

_ Trent Ikithon _

Caleb reads over the letter several times, trying to figure out which part of it is filling him with a sense of _wrongness_. He hasn't paid much attention to winners of the genetic lottery in the past, but surely they haven't been invited to attend the opera by the founder of GeneCo himself, much less been provided _outfits_ by him. He sets the note and ticket aside and turns his attention to said outfit. 

It's obvious from a glance that the clothing is _expensive_ , even to a man who knows nothing about fashion. Looking at the clean, crisp lines of the fabric, Caleb feels hyper-aware of the sweat and dirt and cat hair on his hands. He doesn't feel entirely present as he walks to the bathroom and turns on the tap to wash his hands. The water is bracingly cold, and the shock of it brings him a little more back to himself. His fingers are numb by the time he's finished rinsing all the soap off, but his mind is clear.

Caleb is careful as he puts the note and ticket back into the box and re-wraps the tissue paper over the outfit. He's going to wait for Astrid and Wulf to get home before he deals with this. Something about the thought of trying on clothing provided by Ikithon while he's home alone is making his skin crawl, and this feels like something they should tackle together. As he returns to the main room of the apartment, he wonders if Astrid and Wulf got personalized notes as well. For a moment, he considers going back to the bedroom and looking, but-

He can just ask them. They have no reason to lie to him. He won't look now because he doesn't need to.

_And_ , he thinks, _I wouldn't be able to make the boxes look unopened._

But mostly he doesn't look because he doesn't need to.

* * *

"Fuck," Wulf hisses. " _Fuck_ , you look good. I _hate_ it."

"How much did this _cost?_ God, the material alone…" Astrid smooths her hands over the white, rich velvet of her coat, and turns slightly in front of the bathroom mirror. "I don't like this. Why would he go to all this trouble? All this expense?"

"I think he wants to show me off." Caleb looks down at himself, at the sheer fabric of his shirt that perfectly displays the scar stretching across his chest. Beneath it the fabric is opaque, clearly framing GeneCo's work. "And he knows I wouldn't come without you."

Wulf bites his lower lip- that may be part of it, or at least a good cover, but he can't help but feel this is also related to his and Astrid's performance review. A reward, an incentive, a thank you for a job well done. A gift he can't politely decline no matter how badly he wants to, although he can't deny that he felt a palpable sense of relief the first time he saw the clothing- he doesn't think he and Astrid would have received expensive outfits and an invitation to a public event if Ikithon was planning on having them fired or killed.

"Alright, Becker, your turn. Strip." Astrid snaps her fingers before opening the box addressed to Wulf.

"Oh, yes _ma'am_." He pulls his shirt over his head before starting to undo his pants, and Caleb wolf-whistles at him. "Hey, none of that, you're still healing."

"What, am I not allowed to look at my own boyfriend?" Caleb pouts. "I might as well gouge out my eyes if you won't even allow me that small pleasure."

"I'm not saying you can't look, I'm just saying that you can't be horny about it. What did the doctors say, six weeks?"

" _Four_ to six. I think I'm very close to being allowed a little horniness." Caleb crosses his arms and pointedly looks Wulf up and down.

If Wulf flexes just a little as Caleb eyes him, he doesn't think he can be blamed for showing off. He sees Astrid roll her eyes beside him, but she's smiling. 

Once he's stripped down to his underwear, he rolls out his neck and gets a satisfying series of _pop_ s for his efforts. He stretches idly as Astrid unpacks whatever absurdly expensive thing Trent has hand-picked for him to parade around in. Wulf can already imagine the expression on Trent's face when he sees the three of them all dressed up in his stupid clothes- those thin lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk at the reminder of how much power he has over them. There's a hot anger starting to simmer in the pit of his stomach, but he pushes it down. Getting mad about a situation he can't change, a situation he _chose_ to be in, isn't productive, and besides. For all the quiet horror of the gifts, it's a little fun to get dressed up.

"Alright, finish your impression of a glowstick and we can get started." 

Astrid has laid out his clothes on the bed, and he's taken aback by the sheer number of pieces. Wulf turns to face her and deliberately cracks each of his knuckles one by one while making direct eye contact, earning an impressively exaggerated eye roll.

"If you're not careful, your face will freeze like that." Wulf steps forward to look at the outfit, and grimaces at how _fitted_ it looks. He knows that Trent has both his and Astrid's measurements, so it feels almost malicious to be so pointed in reminding them of that fact. He's proud of his physique, but he wants to show it off on his own terms. 

The question of how Ikithon knows _Caleb's_ measurements is one Wulf doesn't want to dwell on.

"If it freezes, it freezes. At least then you'll always know how I'm feeling. Now come on, this looks like it might take a while to put on."

They start with the pants, which seem to be made of black suede and have elaborate leather lacing along the entire outseam. Thankfully the laces are more decorative than functional, though they do have to be loosened at the top for Wulf to comfortably fit his muscular thighs into the pants. Even then, they're tight.

"I have the most overwhelming urge to slap your ass right now." Astrid is looking him over like he's a meal and she hasn't eaten in days.

Wulf laughs. "Where's all this horny energy coming from?

"We look good. _You_ look good. We're going on a date in a day and a half. And your ass looks fantastic in those stupid pants." There's a faint flush on Astrid's cheeks, and she licks her lips when she finishes speaking.

"I second that," Caleb says, eyeing him unsubtly. "The pants _are_ stupid, but you wear them _very_ well.”

Wulf sighs, and bends over to place his hands on the bed. He arches his back and wiggles his hips, exaggerating a little, but before he has time to throw a sultry look over his shoulder, there's a _crack_ immediately followed by a sharp sting. Wulf exhales slowly through his teeth- that wasn't one of Astrid's hardest strikes, but it was up there. He stays bent over for another moment before straightening up, and feels the pain start to shift to a warmth that begins to radiate through him.

"Better?" he asks, and Astrid nods, grinning.

"Much. Although I could _always_ keep going…"

" _Liebling_ , as nice as that sounds, I think these pants might be too tight for you to get the reaction you're looking for."

"Oh, _Schade_ , I didn't realize they were compromising your blood flow." Astrid snorts.

" _Anti-_ boner- _hosen_ ," Caleb chokes out before laughter overtakes him, and Wulf can't help but join him.

By the time their laughter has died down, Wulf's stomach hurts and he feels light in a way he hasn't for a long time.

Astrid exhales loudly then takes a deep breath, trying to steady her breathing. "Okay, okay, let's finish dressing you so we can get you out of those chastity pants."

The rest of the outfit is just as over-the-top as he expected. The long-sleeved shirt is black and has a high collar and frills down the front, though they're mostly hidden by a blood-red embroidered waistcoat that fits just as snugly as the pants. The embroidery is intricate and scrolling, the designs done in metallic silver thread that sparkles in the bedroom's overhead light. There are a pair of boots still in the box, along with a pair of gloves and an assortment of jewelry, but he doesn't want to put anything else on at the moment. He'll save all of that for the night of the opera.

He'll save the thought that the design of the boots and the material the gloves are made of look uncomfortably familiar for the opera, too. 

Caleb and Astrid are both giving him appraising, appreciative looks, and despite his concerns and hesitation about the entire situation, he can feel heat curling in his gut. It's been a long time.

"Let's get out of these fucking clothes, and then…" Wulf pauses, thinking. "Nothing beyond hand stuff, okay? And the underwear stays _on_."

Caleb rolls his eyes. "You are such a worrywart. I'm probably not going to asphyxiate if you put your dick in me."

"I'm not willing to take that chance."

Astrid is already halfway out of her jacket as she asks, "Do _my_ underwear have to stay on?"

"In the interest of fairness, _ja_."

"Ugh. You're no fun."

In the end, they spend most of the evening curled up close and kissing while their outfits hang hidden behind the thick wooden doors of the wardrobe. Out of sight but not quite out of mind.

* * *

The day of the opera arrives much sooner than any of them want it to, but there's an undercurrent of excitement to the nervous energy. They're going on a _date_ , and a very nice one at that, if Caleb excludes the presence of Trent Ikithon. If the advertisements on the video billboards are to be believed, the Ruby of the Sea herself is performing tonight, and she's sure to put on an impressive show. Marion Lavorre is one of GeneCo's most popular performers, and the prospect of getting to see her sing live and in-person is exciting even for someone who doesn't keep up with celebrities.

Beau had been skeptical about the tickets and repulsed by the outfits ("He's treating you like a doll, or a fucking pet"), but she had gone strangely quiet when Caleb told her who was performing. He had teased her about having a celebrity crush, and she had jabbed back with a retort consisting mainly of the word 'dickhead', but had ended the call not long after on a flimsy excuse. 

He made a mental note to grill her about it on their next walk, but with the excitement of the upcoming opera, any urgency he might have felt about questioning her has dissipated into nervous energy. He doesn't _forget_ about it- he never forgets- but he does put it on the back burner. Beau is always weird when it comes to Trent, anyways. Not that he can blame her for it.

Getting dressed on the night of the opera feels almost like a ritual, like something sacred- they help each other with buttons and buckles, fingers trembling with the meaning of it all. Astrid is unspeakably handsome in her black pants and her white velvet tailcoat with its red intricate appliqués on either side of her chest like bloodstains. Eodwulf is similarly stunning in his outfit, every piece fitted to emphasize his muscular frame. Astrid's box had also contained black leather platform boots, accentuated with an excessive number of straps and shiny silver buckles like Eodwulf's. His are knee-high and add a good four inches to his already intimidating height, while Astrid's are thigh-high with a more feminine cut to the thick soles. The look on her face when she sees them confirms Caleb's suspicions that she hates them, but they _do_ look very nice on her.

And then there's Caleb's outfit. The very top of his shirt is sheer to show off the dark scar that stretches horizontally all the way across his chest. The fabric just below the scar and the fabric of the sleeves is black and opaque, and feels like silk. It tucks neatly into red high-waisted trousers that are surprisingly comfortable. He's also been provided with a dark red coat trimmed with gold cord that mostly covers his chest and helps him feel a little less on display. Thankfully his boots aren't platforms and only come to his mid-calf.

"I don't want to wear this." Astrid is holding the black velvet choker that was folded neatly beneath her outfit next to a pair of black leather half-palm gloves. The style of the choker is popular at the moment- Caleb has seen plenty of people wearing them on his walks and on the way to his checkups. But the design being in vogue doesn't make the large silver ring hanging from the front look any less like a dog collar.

He and Wulf have their own, of course. The design is the same, but Caleb's is made of dark red silk and Wulf's is a white leather. The metal is _heavy_ just in his hand, and he's sure it'll be even worse around his throat. An ever-present reminder of whose thumb he's under. At least Wulf and Astrid got the same accessory. The thought of being the only one wearing a collar is worse than the reality of all three of them in the damn things.

"I don't want to wear _any_ of this." Wulf pulls at the hem of his waistcoat, frowning. "But especially not the fucking dog collars. What's Ikithon going to do, clip a leash onto us? Lead us around like show dogs?"

"Don't say that." Astrid grimaces. "He might actually do it. These are probably bugged and I don't want to give him ideas."

Caleb snorts. "What reason would he have to bug us? Last I checked, none of us are enemies of the state. Or even remotely interesting to GeneCo."

"Outside of you being an investment." Astrid's expression is sour in a way that Caleb doesn't understand, and it stings a little to think her irritation is directed partially towards him.

It must show on his face, because her eyes soften and regret creeps across her features. "I'm not upset with you, Caleb. I'm just frustrated by the way he treats… people. Like they're nothing more than pawns to be used until their usefulness runs out."

" _Ja_." There's something she's not saying, something hiding between her words and in her pauses, but he doesn't know what. "You are not wrong."

"Am I ever?" Her tone is playful, but there's still a tension in the air.

"Constantly." Wulf says, and just like that, the tension breaks. Astrid shoots him a look, and Caleb can't help but snort. 

"Okay, _Herr_ Bleach-And-Ammonia."

“That was at least twelve years ago, funny how you can only dredge up examples from ages ago-"

"You brush your teeth too hard." Astrid is glaring, hands on her hips, but she's still teasing. "You're going to lose your enamel by the time you're thirty-five."

"And yet the court will note that _I've_ never had a cavity." Wulf is mirroring her pose and tone in the eerily accurate way only he can. 

"Maybe not, but your time is coming, Becker. Teeth have an expiration date."

Caleb laughs before he can stop himself. "That is the _worst_ thing I've ever heard and I really don't want either of you to try and top it. At least not tonight."

"Coward." Wulf glances at his HoloWatch and grimaces. " _Scheiße_ , we need to get going. Everybody dressed?"

"Almost. I just need help with this fucking thing." Astrid holds out the choker, and Caleb takes it.

Her skin is warm against his fingers as he holds the velvet against her throat. He can't help but press a soft kiss to the nape of her neck before starting to fasten the choker.

"That's good, not too tight. If you get Wulf's, I'll get yours." There are goosebumps on Astrid's neck as she speaks, and her voice is a little throaty.

Caleb kisses a little higher up, above the clasp he just fastened, and smiles at the shiver she can't quite suppress. As he moves behind Wulf and Astrid shifts behind him, he hears her grumble _Arschloch_ under her breath.

In the interest of fairness, he gives Wulf the same treatment- a kiss before, a kiss after, though the feeling of Astrid's cool, leather-clad fingers brushing feather-light against the sides and back of his neck is more than a little distracting. Unfortunately, the weight of the metal hanging from his throat is distracting too, and in a much less pleasant way.

Wulf clears his throat as he traces a finger over the metal ring just below his Adam's apple. "Alright. Do we all have our tickets? Everybody used the bathroom? Got their HoloWatches?"

" _Ja, Mutti_." Astrid rolls her eyes. "Let's go."

The stairs are a bit of a challenge for Astrid and Wulf in their platform boots- Astrid clings to the rusty handrail on the wall, and Wulf walks down the stairs sideways, gripping the banister on the other side with both hands and cursing quietly every time it wobbles. They make it to the bottom unscathed, though, and open the door to a blast of cold winter air. Caleb shivers despite his thick coat, but the cold is quickly forgotten when he sees what awaits them outside.

A black limousine is parked in the street, and a black-clad figure is standing on the sidewalk, gloved hands clasped in front of their body. The only visible skin is their face, and as Caleb gets closer, he can see that there are fine silvery scars forming intricate designs, giving them the appearance that they’ve been draped in spiderweb.

"Mr. Widogast-Ermendrud. Ms. Bachmann. Mr. Becker." The person nods at Caleb, Astrid, and Wulf as they are addressed. "My name is Kasimir and I will be your chauffeur for the evening, as per Master Ikithon's request."

"Oh." Wulf sounds just as confused as Caleb feels. "Okay?"

"Is something the matter?" Kasimir cocks their head, and there's something strange about the movement, though it's hard to say what exactly about it is unnerving. Perhaps the fact that they're smiling and it seems to be genuine. "Ah, you did not expect to be chauffeured because the opera house is well within walking distance of your apartment, yes? Master Ikithon is a terribly generous man, and he wanted to provide you with the full experience of being his personal guests."

As they speak, the smile never leaves their face, and Caleb is reminded of one of the many billboards cluttering the city skyline- endless beautiful, smiling faces advertising Zydrate and surgery and a surefire path into debt. But Kasimir doesn't seem malicious or especially threatening, just _strange_.

"Ah. Well. That _is_ very generous of him. We'll be sure to thank him." Astrid's tone is genial and doesn't belie any of the discomfort Caleb knows she's feeling. It's impressive, really.

"Wonderful." Kasimir opens the back door of the limousine and gestures inside with a small bow. "Shall we? I despair at the thought of you arriving late."

It takes some teamwork to get both Astrid and Wulf into the car with their platform boots, but eventually they manage. The interior is very nice- leather bench seats, low light, and it's heated to a very comfortable temperature compared to the chill of outside. Caleb can see Kasimir climb into the driver's seat through the lowered partition, which they do not roll up.

"I don't remember the last time I was in an actual car," Wulf murmurs, and Astrid nods in agreement. Caleb nods as well, but all he can think about is when Beauregard brought him to the graveyard on the outskirts of the city and he was driven back to the apartment by a man who knew nothing about him but was still kind enough to help him get home.

The drive only takes five minutes- the opera house really isn't far, and the fact that Trent had them chauffeured feels both like a show of power and a show of wealth. When Kasimir pulls up in front of the theater and gets out to open the door for them, every person on the street turns to look. There are murmurs as they get out and the flash of one camera, then another. Caleb's stomach churns, and the choker feels impossibly tight around his neck. 

“Master Ikithon will be waiting for you inside. Do enjoy the show.” Kasimir smiles once more, and though Caleb tries to thank them, he can’t get himself to speak through the background hum of conversation and increasingly frequent clicking of cameras. He manages an appreciative nod, at least.

Once they’re out of the limousine, Astrid and Wulf press up close to him like they’re trying to hide him, but he knows there’s no hiding from the press. Caleb rolls his shoulders back as best he can, standing up straight and shaking his hair out of his face. 

“Let’s go find our host,” he says, and his voice doesn’t waver.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, let me know! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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